


Bitter Coffee

by pilotisms



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A nosy roommate, F/M, Grad Student!Reader, Reader Insert, Slow Burn, Some good ol' Bucky x PTSD, The Stark Internship, Too many tropes, and Peter Parker being horrible at lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-24 18:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 38,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Coffee.As simple as it was, Bucky was beginning to think it was maybe the last thing to remain the same in this new, fast, terrifying world. No matter what, he knew he could get a medium hot black coffee – he knew he could settle at the counter, put cream in his cup and enjoy it.(No sugar, Bucky doesn’t like his coffee sweet. It’s bitter, like him.)He likes you though. And you're awfully sweet.





	1. where it all begins

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!
> 
> If you follow me on Tumblr, odds are you've already tuned into this multi-part series. I've chose to make a nice chronological index of everything I've written for #bittercoffee here, since there will be a plot developing soon.
> 
> If you don't follow me, feel free to hop on over to whirlybirbs.tumblr.com! There's a lot of additional content over there like playlists and moodboards!

Coffee.

As simple as it was, Bucky was beginning to think it was maybe the last thing to  _remain the same_  in this new, fast, terrifying world. No matter what, he knew he could get a medium hot black coffee – he knew he could settle at the counter, put cream in his cup and  _enjoy_ it.

(No sugar, Bucky doesn’t  _like_ his coffee sweet.  
It’s bitter, like him.)

He settles into the Avengers Tower – the 37th floor, nice and high – and settles into a routine. Wake up, work out, coffee, eat, spend time with Steve or the team’s psychologist trying to  _remember_ , work out again, eat again, shower. Sleep.

He hates sleep. Maybe that’s why he likes coffee so much.

Bucky makes amends with Stark, though that in its self is a bit objective. Bucky remembers only  _parts_ of the Winter Soldier,  _slivers_ of James Buchanan. He remembers being a monster mostly, and he thinks Tony realizes that. 

Tony has his own demons too, and Bucky realizes  _that_.

He feels like he’s in limbo – a person without a sense of purpose or belonging or –

“It’s  _Bucky,_ right?”  


Right, coffee.

He likes the place a block down from the tower – it’s small, but always busy. Bucky likes getting his coffee, sitting in the corner and  _watching_. He learns a lot about people this way; he feels comfortable  _watching_. Sometimes he reads. NO one bothers him, the coffee is good, and for once, Bucky feels like he blends into some sort of normality.

 He likes it here.

You have a sharpie in your hands, dark brows raised as you purse your lips a bit – your hair is tugged into a messy bun today, sweeping bangs dancing against your cheekbones as you tilt your head. The cup is ready – a  _medium_ with ‘ _black’_ scrawled onto the side.

Bucky swallows, nodding quickly. His bare hand moves to adjust his black baseball cap. His eyes meet yours for a split second before they hit the counter again. 

He likes  _you_ , too.

You work mornings usually; he’s pieced together that you’re a grad student at a local university. He’s not sure what discipline, but once the end of your shift rolls around, you have a bag slung over your shoulders and an NYU hoodie pulled over your white “ _LET’S GET COFFEE SOMETIME”_ work tee – normally you’re running, waving bye to coworkers and regulars.

“Yeah.”   


You swirl the sharpie, and with a flick of your wrist, his name is stark against the white, paper cut.   


“I figured,” you smile sweetly,  _so sweetly_ , “It’s $2.50, you know the drill.”  


You  _try_ not to stare – really, you try. Bucky was slowly becoming a regular, though some of your coworkers were convinced he was a local homeless guy. He’d come in, get his coffee, and sit. For  _hours_. Reading the paper or a book or just  _watching_. 

He was a  _mystery_ , really. Why was he wearing  _one_ glove all the time? And the unmarked ball cap? Not even a  _Yankess_ hat? And how did he always have enough cash to leave a .50 cent tip? He couldn’t be homeless. His clothes were too clean and he was always rocking some sort of tactical grade backpack and boots and –

Matt, your coworker and fellow barista, thought he was ex-military. Maybe a homeless vet. But, you had your doubts. 

All that mattered is that he was sweet, polite  _and_ he gave a good tip for a medium cup of black coffee.

You note the calloused and bruised knuckles of his exposed hand as he digs out three one dollar bills from his wallet. You catch a glimpse of the flex of an arm under his jacket – he inhales, nose wrinkling a bit as he smooths the crumpled dollars out.

“You can keep the change.”

It’s so quiet you almost miss it.

You move to pour the dark roast, a fresh pot, into his cup and exchange the bills for the cup. Your fingers brush his and he swallows. You try to ignore the budding affection in your chest at his visible reaction. 

“Thank you.”  


He wonders if the real  _Bucky_ , James Buchanan, had good luck with women – from what Steve has mentioned, James had no problem securing a girl to write during the war… He had girls from England, from France, even  _Germany,_ and plenty from back home in Brooklyn. 

He inwardly curses a bit, wishing maybe he could remember  _those_ social skills.

“No problem, Bucky. Have a nice day.”  


He ducks his head, tucking his wallet into his back pocket as he blinks up for a second. “I, uh, I’m gunna sit for a bit, I think.”

“Oh!” you laugh a little, “Go ahead! You beat the rush, so…  _Sit_ away!”  


Awkward. Matt is watching you. Matt knows you think he’s cute. I mean, everyone on shift does – even  _Matt, Mr. Heterosexual Crossfit God_. You shift on your feet as Bucky raises his free hand, it’s gloved, and waves a little.

“Thanks again.”  


You motion to the tip jar. “No, thank  _you_.”

Bucky smiles, faint and slow, as he meanders to the counter to put cream in his cup. It’s genuine and it feels  _good_  – he can’t remember the last time his face broke into a smile. 

Coffee would do it.

You, too.


	2. valentine's day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes dark for a couple of days.
> 
> You guys at the shop notice.

Days kind of…  _blend together_ for Bucky.

So when he breaks his daily routine of workout, coffee, repeat for a mission out in Sweden with Steve, Wanda and Pietro, Bucky doesn’t anticipate the ripple effect it has on the coffee shop where you work.

You don’t notice the first day, not until your shift is over and you’re hustling to the subway to make it to class, recounting the customers – Bucky had made an appearance every day that week  _except_ today. He’d come in, been quiet and polite, ordered his coffee, tipped and sat. Sat and read. For hours. But, not today.

The second day, you and your coworkers are in a minor flurry of worry – had something happened? If he  _was_ indeed homeless, that meant there was a million and ten things that could have happened to him. Your stomach rocked with a violent sense of unease. New York City wasn’t a kind place and it certainly wasn’t any kinder to its homeless population.

You try not to worry about the man you hardly knew.

Watching the television above the menu helped – the news was elbow deep in covering a mission some of the Avengers had just returned from. The team was rag tag in its own respects, and it’s newest additions Scarlet Witch, Quicksilver and the Winter Soldier were making what seemed to be their debuts. 

The Winter Soldier was the only one toting a mask – a pair of goggles and what seemed to be a half-balaclava. For now, New York was left wondering who the new guy was.

By the seventh day of no long haired, baseball cap, backpack toting Bucky, you and your coworkers figured he must have up and moved. It was odd how much you all cared about him – maybe it was the sense of mystery surrounding who he is… You’d all tried to piece it together to no avail.   


You’d finally settled that Bucky was probably never going to come back to the shop around the week and a half point.

And then, on February 14th, he strolls in – like nothing’s changed. It’s a Wednesday and business is slow.

He has a different jacket on – this one is grey, and his boots look new. The laces are tight and he looks more  _ex-military_ than you’ve ever seen him look. Matt, to your left, nearly shrieks in surprise; he dumps his own pastry onto the counter and swallows his bite.

“Bucky!” Matt circles the counter, offering a welcoming wave of his hand, “Dude, where the  _hell_ have you been? We were worried we lost our best regular!”

Another regular, an older man Johnathan, at the table in the back shouts. “Hey!”

“Sorry, Johnny! It’s true!”  


Bucky visibly stiffens at the loudness of the blonde’s voice and you watch from your spot behind the cashier. You note how his fingers tighten a little around his backpack strap and he shoves his gloved hand into his pocket quickly. 

“I, uh,” he toes the tile of the shop’s floor, “Just been working, y’know.”  


Matt grins, huge and  _a bit shark like_ , before clapping Bucky on the shoulder. You note how Bucky recoils a bit, not out of the force, but out of discomfort. 

“Well,” you speak then, raising your voice to catch both of their attentions, “We’re glad to have you back – you want the usual?”  


Bucky blinks, face a bit hot from the small compliment –  _we’re glad to have you back._ Steve has said that to him before, but Steve was  _obligated_. In a past life they were best friends. But… Bucky’s nose wrinkles a bit as he steps forward to the counter. 

“Yeah,” he nods, “And… Maybe a donut?”  


You watch how his chin tilts as he blinks up at the menu. His hair is tucked behind his ears, five o’clock shadow lining his sharp jaw. Bucky can feel you watching him and cold blue eyes slips down to look at you quickly.

You peep, swallowing and nodding. “The donuts are good.”  


Bucky fights the tight lipped smile threatening to worm its way onto his face. The words slip out, like it’s not  _him_  saying it. “You have any jelly sticks?”

He tries not to look confused – this was another one of those remembering moments. Apparently jelly sticks were a favorite. He freezes up a little, wrinkling his nose as he rubs his jaw. 

_Jelly sticks_? He’d have to ask Steve about it.  _That is a horrible choice of donut._

You’re quick, snagging his coffee and his donut before handing it over. The brown haired man digs into his pocket for his wallet, but you cut him off.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s on me,” you smile, “Happy Valentine’s Day, right?”  


For the second time at the counter, he freezes a little, eyes softening considerably as he takes the order from your hands.

“… You’re sure?”  


You grin, toothy and sweet. “Of course, welcome back to the world of the living.”

He moves, slow, then stops. “Happy Valentine’s Day, then.”

He drops his five dollar bill into the tip jar.

You laugh.


	3. not stalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's not stalking you. He just... He likes routine, okay?

Steve notices.

Sam notices.

Even  _Tony_ notices.

Bucky is rushing, throwing himself together in the locker room after training and looking antsier than usual. It’s a Friday, a day before the long weekend, and it’s already verging on 11:30; he knows you’ll be rushing out the shop soon, trying to catch the subway for your 12:45 class.

“Christ, Bucky, slow down,” it’s Sam, side eyeing Bucky’s rushed behavior as he tugs a hoodie on quickly, “You got a  _hot date_ or somethin’?”  


Bucky stiffens, eyes darting over to Falcon as he pouts a bit.  _He wishes._ A grumble. “No.”

It’s Tony this time who speaks as he strolls by, towel tossed over his shoulder. “Don’t you  _know_ , Sam? Bucky here has a new  _hang-out spot._ ”

“Hang-out spot?” Steve sounds confused. Steve  _always_ sounds confused.  


“A coffee shop,” Bucky mumbles, giving Steve a look of ‘ _will explain later’_ , but Steve already gets it. He smiles and nods as Bucky slings his bag over his shoulder, “I gotta get there before noon – she knows my order and…”  


The trio stare at him, eyebrows raised. Bucky’s words die in his throat.

“ _Whatever._ Be back later.”  


Meanwhile, you’re a bit antsier than usual, too. You did your makeup today – subtle but  _pretty_ and you can’t help but hold your head a little higher every time the door chimes and another customer strolls in.

But, Bucky hasn’t popped in yet – and you’re busy pacing, making various to go orders to keep busy. 

It’s noon when the door chimes again, but you’re busy, wrist deep in a medium iced cafe mocha for Susan. It’s not until you hear a clearing of a throat that you peak up for a moment. It’s Bucky, cheeks flushed from the cold and chest heavy a bit – like he  _ran_. Your lips bend into a bright smile, tilting your head as you cap the iced coffee and give it a swirl.

“Did you…”  


“ _Run_?” he nods, swallowing, “Yes.”  


“Because –”  


“Your shift ends in fifteen.”  


He says it because he  _knows_  – he… well, he hadn’t considered the  _insinuation_ it meant. That he came here for her… I mean,  _he did_.

You blink, laughing a little as you chew your lip in contemplation. Bucky stares, blue eyes eating you up as you do so – it’s  _dangerous,_ your lips look pretty in that color lip balm. Your whole  _everything_ looks pretty. 

You lean over the counter, voice raised. “ _Medium iced cafe mocha for Susan!”_

Your attention slips back to Bucky, dimples digging in deep as you ring up his order in the register. “Any jelly sticks today, mister?”

“Two, please, doll,” he fights a wince – another memory thing. James used that nickname a lot. It slips out. Though, you seem to smile a little brighter at the use of it. “I haven’t even eaten breakfast.”  


“Late start?” you call over your shoulder, bending at the waist to snag him two of the bigger donuts in the back of the display.   


Bucky shifts on his feet, twiddling the five dollar bill in his hands. “You could say that.”

“Me too, if it’s any consolation,” you shrug, plopping his bag onto the counter and pounding the keys on the register, “Homework. Nothing fun – no bar hopping for me.”  


“Homework?” it’s tentative. You smile and nod, leaning on the counter a bit.  


“Biomedical. I’m a grad student at –”  


“NYU?”  


You pause, face splitting into that same sweet smile you had on your face earlier. Bucky’s chest surges with pride. He smiles, tight lipped and slow. You laugh again, ducking your head.

“You know,” you start, handing him his donuts and coffee before taking his bill and breaking it in the register, “If I was any other girl, I’d think maybe you’re stalking me.”  


His face falls. “No,  _no,_ I just –”

“Even if you  _were_ stalking me,” you chide, dropping his change into his open hand, “I’d definitely stalk you back. Mutual stalking. Totally normal. Very healthy.”  


Bucky swears he hasn’t felt this  _elated_ in a while – he wasn’t sure if this was  _flirting,_ but you were smiling and he was smiling and he  _likes it._  The Winter Soldier swallows, a low chuckle quaking out of his chest, face hot with a bit of embarrassment. He toes the edge of the counter, rocking on his heels as he tucks his wallet back into his jeans. You notice the way his lips turn upwards as he speaks.

“I’m  _not_ stalking you.”  


“I know you’re not,” you grin, “You just pay attention.”

“I like routine,” he mumbles, “And watching.”

“So…”

“ _Not_ stalking.”  


You laugh, head slipping back and ponytail swaying slightly. Your lashes kiss your cheeks as you scrunch your eyes shut and shake your head. “Right. We established that.”

Bucky pauses halfway over to the counter with the milk and cream and sugar and wooden coffee stirrers. 

“Maybe… Maybe you could watch with me sometime.”  


A small smile, broken up by a small chew of your lip. You lean back on your heels, blinking back at the clock. “Matt is on in ten. How about after that?”

“Don’t you have –”  


“My bio statistics course, yeah,” you grin, “But I think I’d rather spend some time with my stalker.”  


Bucky just  _laughs_.


	4. the vigilante and you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet the Winter Solider.

The TV crackles alive with _‘Breaking News!’_ and like every other New Yorker, you carry on like usual. Some of the Avengers are in Times Square, dueling it out with some skull masked villain, and things roll on. You shake your head at the television, sigh and continue cleaning the counter.

Just another night in New York City. 

The shop had long since closed – you’d picked up a late shift, covering for Hannah who’s boyfriend surprised her with a birthday dinner. 

You didn’t think anything of locking up the shop, heading down towards your usual subway stop – you nestled you face into your scarf, teeth chattering a bit as the winter cold bit into you. You adjust your backpack. You sniffle a bit.

It’s just like any other night.

The walk was normally about 15 minutes, but you could make it in ten if you really hustled. However, tonight, your bones seemed to be a bit stiffer – must be from the cold. Rummaging in your pocket, you dug out your phone. The bright lock screen glowed blue against your features; the temperature read 15 degrees on the weather app. You groaned.

Peaking up, you freeze and realize you’d taken a wrong turn.

Normally, it wouldn’t have put you off so much – this alley is much less intimidating at 12:15 in the afternoon.

The alleyway is dark, but by the back entrance to the local bar, you feel your chest sink with dread as three men pin you down with seedy gazes. They’re shadows against the dumpster, and ones face lights up as he puffs his cigarette. In the orange glow, you note the tattoos across his neck.

“Hey, pretty thing.”  


You turn quick on your heels, finger flying across the keyboard to text your room mate one single word:  _help_. Your location pings across the screen. You start to panic.  _Sure,_ you’d been cat called… but at 12am on a Tuesday? This spelled trouble. And now they were moving.

“Where you goin’, baby girl?” another chimes in, “Come back here.”  


You hear the footsteps pick up behind you, and out of instinct you burst into a sprint.

You book it back onto the main road, hoping to lose them with the fear of being seen, but it’s late and traffic is slow and they follow – your legs pump hard and fast; if you can make it to the subway stop,  _someone_ will see you. The MTA always had a security officer or  _someone._

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. It’s probably Marissa. No time to respond.

_ “Aw, pretty girl thinks she’s quick!”  
_

Your legs fly down the steps as you duck into the subway tunnel, sneakers pounding against the pavement as you leap down the steps and practically  _vault_ over the sliding doors where your MetroCard would have normally been scanned. The terminal beeps in anger and you  _scream_ in panic as the MTA officer’s station is empty. 

The three men, at this point, have started to laugh – one still has a beer clutched in his hand as he eyes you from across the terminal. 

“No where to run, babe,” he grins, “Get your sweet ass over here.”  


Your chest is heaving, hair wild as your eyes scan the surroundings. Three men, older but not slow. Maybe drunk. You couldn’t  _fight them_ , not with three of them. Maybe two – but… You shift backwards, inching away.

But, it’s the sound of heavy foot falls down the same steps you’d just flown down that catch your attention and  _apparently_ the attention of the three bar rats. 

Slow  _thuds_  echo through the empty station. You think maybe you could book it while the three are distracted but –

Then you see  _him._

He’s one of the newest members of the Avengers,  _The Winter Soldier_. 

Clearly, he’d been on ‘night shift’ while the others handled the mess in Times Square.

Winter Solider is… terrifying. Tall, hulking – the half mask covering his mouth and nose leaves angry brows and dark eyes in its wake and his tactical gear screams of precision and deadliness. You note the lack knife strapped to his belt, long and sheathed. And the  _arm._ It glows like gunmetal in the buzzing lights of the underground station. The star on his shoulder is sharp. Everything about his is  _sharp._

The Winter Solider seems to assess the situation, meeting your stare and seeing fear. His eyes look familiar. 

His biggest priority is making sure you  _don’t_ recognize him.   


Bucky tries not to seem so invested, tries to seem distant. It’s hard when he’s so angry, when worry builds in his chest. He’d watched you leave the shop, knowing  _full well_ that this could be considered stalking, but his gut told him to be smart, to stick around. 

Sure enough, he’d cursed out loud when you turned into the alley.

Your gaze bounces back to the three men. Bucky  _gets it._

_ He’ll handle them. _

“Oh, great, another  _costumed freak_.”  


If there was any other insult left to be said, it dies fast as the Winter Solider charges forward, arm snatching the bigger man by the throat and throttling him towards the floor. He screams, in pain or surprise, you’re not sure, but you can hardly move as you watch it all happen. Your jaw drops slightly.

Bucky sees it in his peripherals and his chest puffs with pride.

The other two move, sweeping to ambush the Winter Soldier from the sides, but he’s too fast; he ducks and weaves and lands hard hits on both the men – you’re sure you hear a few ribs crack – and you could hardly get the “ _watch out!”_ to leave your throat before those two are handled. It’s violent and brutal and  _incredible._

He blinks, straightening his shoulders and cracking his neck.

_ Cute. _

The Winter Soldier steps over the incapacitated bodies writhing half-conscious on the floor, eyes the MetroTerminal and casually punches the keypad. Stark can pay that bill later.

The doors swing open with a greeting beep. If you weren’t  _shaking in fear,_ you might have laughed. But, instead you begin to panic, worried  _you’re_ the next target. Did he think you’d stolen something? Maybe you’d started the altercation?

 Your feet carry you backwards, away from him.

He walks with confidence. His boots tap against the pavement. You swear those cargo pants look familiar. Bucky notes how your eyes dart down his waist and land on the knife there before bounding back up his figure to his eyes. 

“I th-thought,” you stammer, “I thought _Spider-man_  was the one who saved damsels in distress on Tuesday nights.”  


You swear he laughs. His mask muffles it.

“So, no –” you panic, your heels hitting the the bench by the tracks and you trip, landing on your bottom and wincing. You skid, palms grabbing at the bench as you try and steady yourself. “N-No dice, huh?  _Tough_ crowd.”  


You wince, eyes screwing shut as he footfalls stop in front of you. His boot toes your own shoe. You tense up. You can’t look – if he’s about to clock you, you’d rather just  _let it happen –_

“Do me a favor,” he rasps, “No more _late shifts_.”  


And when you finally pry your eyes open, he’s gone.

The subway rattles into the station.

Just another night in New York City.


	5. piecing it all together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not stupid. Bucky learns the hard way.

“Late night?”  


It’s Bucky. You slouch against the counter and nod. 

He tries not to seem so smug – really, he can’t help the fact. The dark haired man chews the inside of his lip as you stagger to the counter and ring in his usual order. He keeps his cool. He does notice how tired your eyes are though and wonders if you got  _any_ sleep after your run-in with  ~~him~~  the Winter Soldier last night.

“I’m  _never_ doing a late shift again,” you mumble.  


Bucky toes the ground, eyes on the counter. “That bad?”

_ Thank god. No more late shifts. _

You pause. You roll your head back to blink up at him. You catch a glimpse of something under his hoodie. It shines. But he moves, slinging his bag over his shoulder after retrieving his wallet. 

“I met that Winter Soldier guy,” you say, mind else where.  _Must have been a necklace._ Your eyes bounce back up to Bucky’s. His brows are knit in worry.   


_ Faux worry. _

“What?”  


You’re staring at his eyebrows.

Familiar eyebrows.

“Yeah,” you chime after a moment, moving slow as you move to gather his coffee, “He’s  _hotter_ than I’ve read about on twitter.”  


You gauge the reaction.

Bucky’s eyes roll, jaw clenching as he stifles a bashful look.

Matt, to the right of the counter, butts into the conversation. His mouth is full of a chocolate glazed. But that doesn’t stop him. He’s oblivious to the break down falling into place in your brain.

“Yeah,  _idiot sandwich_ over here got jumped by three sleaze balls.”  


“Jumped?”

You offer a tight lipped smile. “Don’t look so  _worried_ , Bucky.”

He stiffens, dialing it back a bit. He takes the coffee and takes his donuts, before moving to tuck his wallet back into his backpack.

But, you’re  _sharp_  – you watch him twist and shift. You see his belt.

You see his  _knife._

… Same knife.

Same brows.

Same  _gunmetal glow._

Your face falls.

When Bucky turns back around, he notices the shift in your face, the way your eyes stay glued to his hip, where his knife sits. He remembers last night, he remembers you  _staring…_ He begins to panic. His face runs pale.

Matt is  _still_  oblivious, he’s moved to clean tables. 

You jut your thumb over your shoulder.

“Bucky,” you mumble, “A word – out back?”  


_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

“… Right.”


	6. you got a sidekick now, buck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

His hand is over your mouth as you squirm, eyes wild as he backs you against the freezer door and clenches his jaw. Bucky is in a full blown panic now, fear gripping his chest as he eyes the door to the front of the shop. If  _you knew_ – well, this wasn’t good. Paranoia was beginning to bite as his brain. You were in danger now, not just from  _Tony,_ but his past’s enemies.

Ghosts haunt the living.

You wiggle, tugging at his gloved hand and kicking a bit as he pins you to the metal door. You’re  _trying_ to tell him to calm down, but it’s muffled against the fabric over your mouth. You exhale sharply from your nose, bangs flying wildly in your face.

“You don’t say  _a word,_ ” he seethes, “Not a peep.”  


You nod quickly, continuing to wiggle as he stares you down. He pauses, gauging your reaction as he peels his hand from your face. You don’t say anything just set your eyes on him in a dark way and quickly tug open the freezer door and shuffle in. “In.”

Goosebumps light up your skin and your cheeks are redder than before. He follows, watching as you lock the door for more privacy.

Silence slips between the two of you and Bucky adjusts his baseball cap. Your hands find your waist after a moment of pacing and turning and physical frustration. Your words fly out, hot and confused.

“What the  _fuck_.”  


It’s Bucky’s turn to pace now, moving from one end of the walk-in freezer to the other. You’re just as worked up as him, hands waving wildly as you start talking.

“You  _think I’m dumb?”_ you whisper-yell, stepping close to him and waving a finger in his face. He clenches his jaw. “Jesus, Bucky, oh my  _god,_ this is so not how I saw my Wednesday going – you know that?”

His voice is gruff.

“If you hadn’t gone down that alley –”  


“Oh, so  _this_ is  _my_ fault now?” you throw your arms in the air, pinching the bridge of your nose, “Right. Yeah,  _sorry_. You – You  _knew_ I was on late shift.”  


Bucky sighs, closing his eyes as his shoulders fall. He’s trying to think this through. If he tells Stark, you’ll most likely be uprooted or bribed or dragged into unnecessary proceedings. But… He trusts you. And maybe –

“ _Stalker_ ,” you drop, eyes wide with amazement, “You  _seriously_ have  _peaked_  –”  


He square his shoulders, pinning you with his gaze.

“Can I trust you?”  


The question punches you in the gut.

“ _What_?”  


“Can I  _trust_ you?”  


He says it again, stepping forward and towering over you in the freezer. His brows are set in seriousness, eyes dark as he watches your face. You shrink, trying to remember to breathe. 

“You think I’d  _tell_ someone?” it’s a whisper.  


“I don’t  _know_ ,” he battles back, “I… I _don’t_  know.”

The two of you, for a moment, are locked in a long stare. Your mind is racing a mile a minute and you’re  _terrified_ , mostly because you  _know_ this is one hell of a secret to keep. Bucky, all the while, swears he could  _scream_ – this is…  _not good._ Not good for him or you or any hope of there being an ‘ _us’._

When you speak, your voice is soft. “I don’t really have a  _choice_ , do I?”

“No,” he murmurs, “Not really.”   


You nod, eyes slipping along his arm and to his gloved hand.

“Does this mean you’ll stop coming to get coffee?”  


Bucky’s face softens, eyes meeting yours – they’re not so dark anymore, not so full of worry. “I… No. Not if –”

He shrugs, words lost and mind spinning. But, you nod, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Then okay.”

“Okay?”  


“I… I wouldn’t  _say anything_ anyways – I couldn’t. S’ just not right. But…”  


 You card your fingers through the hair that’s fallen from your bun, only to huff and drop your head into your hands. You give a hoarse laugh.

“I guess you’ve got a new sidekick, Bucky.”  


“I guess so.”


	7. entry wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky throws himself through your window lookin' a little bit like swiss cheese. Thank god you remember first aid from that one time you worked as a camp counselor.

You’re startled awake, ripped from a dead sleep, to the sound of your window rattling open and the heavy bang of a body hitting the old hardwood floor.

Reflexively, you  _shriek_ , hands jumping to cover your mouth as your scramble out of bed – more like fall, actually – and fly into defense mode. In a flash, you’ve got the Louisville slugger you keep by your nightstand in your hands. You step, legs wide and long t-shirt bunching as you begin to stalk around the edge of the bed.

In any other scenario, you’d look  _pathetic_. Your hair is a mess, wild with sleep, chin crusted with dried drool, and the t-shirt you’ve donned as a night gown barely covers the bare expanses of your thighs. Your voice, though, is heavy with an angered seriousness.

“ _Who the fuck do you think you are_  –”

The intruder groans, sitting up slowly; the gunmetal arm practically glows in the moonlight and your eye widen in realization. He raises a hand, motioning with a silent wave that  _he’s fine. Don’t worry about it._

But, you see right through it.

“ _Bucky_ ,” you whisper-yell, tossing the bat onto your bed and quickly moving to slip to his side. Your bare knees hit the carpet he’d managed to land on. Bucky seems to notice your state of undress, dark eyes skimming up your thighs before his brows shift – they quirk upwards and you  _swear_ if he didn’t have that stupid mask on, you’d have the nerve to  _smack_ him.

Bucky can’t help it. He’s a little out of it. Any distraction is nice.

It’s not until your own eyes dance down his rigid form that you piece together how bad of state he’s in. The tactical gear padding his chest is slick with blood, seeping from a wound between the junction of his right pauldron. The leather there is torn to ribbons and your hands hover for a moment as you gape at the wound.

“ _Ohmygod,_  you’re bleeding. Okay, yep, that’s…  _That’s_  a lot of  _blood_.”

Your eyes continue, traveling towards his thighs and you screw your eyes shut, nodding slowly as you try not to stare at the other entry wound above his plated knee guards. The black material makes it all look so inky and in the limited light of the bedroom, you can hardly believe how much blood there is already – down the window sill, pooling into the carpet.

“Okay,  _awesome_ , yep, this is  _bad_. This is  _not_ good.”

Your ears perk up at the sound of the hurried steps. It’s your apartment’s roommate. From down the hall Marissa shuffles closer to your door. You can hear the worry in her footfalls.

“ _Hide_ ,” you hiss, scrambling to shove Bucky behind the edge of your bed – your fingers press into his shoulders and you’re as careful as you can be, scrambling to keep him from Marissa’s sight. He groans loudly at the shove. Finally, Bucky settles against the bedframe, teeth gritting behind his mask as he holds his shoulder, applying whatever pressure he can.

You fall, scrambling to the door, yanking it just in time for her to knock.

She’s wide eyed when you blink down at her.

“ _Marissa_!” you laugh, “Hee _ee_ eey.”

She looks you up and down.

“Is everything alright?! I heard a bang and you yell and –”

“Oh, yeah,  _psh_ , it’s nothing… I,  _uh_ … I rolled out of bed.”

Her brows knit together.

“ _Rolled_ … out of bed…?”

“Yeah,” you nod, giving a tight lipped smile, “I’m fine. It’s nothing…  _Ha_.”

Your roommate, not convinced in the slightest, nods slowly. “Right. Okay…”

“'Night, Rissa!”

“… Good night.”

You nearly slam your door off the hinges, tripping back over to Bucky’s side. He moves, then, groaning and reached up to tug his mask from his jaw. You inhale, a hand touching the side of his face gingerly as you scramble to dig out a t-shirt from the bottom draw of your dresser. You shove it his way and Bucky accepts it eagerly, pressing the pink fabric into the juncture of his shoulder and hissing slightly.

“I swear,” you begin, tearing at another t-shirt with your teeth as you ready a small turniquot for his leg, “If you weren’t  _bleeding out,_  I’d kill you.”

“S’not  _that_ bad,” he heaves, groaning and wincing visibly as you manipulate his leg, bending his knee and tying the t-shirt strip high on his thigh like the most un-sexy garter belt to ever exist. Your fingers, stained crimson and slick, fumble for the first-aid kit under your bed. “You’re a med student.”

“ _Biomedical_ , Buck,” you deadpan, snapping the latches on the kit and moving to unsap his tactical gear quickly, trying to get a better look at the entry wound on his shoulder, “It’s, like,  _so_ different.”

“ _How_ different?”

A genuine question. He needs a distraction. He was never good at channeling the pain and ignoring it.

You lean, shrugging him out of the bullet proof vest and pistol straps as you try not to admire the way his bare chest heaves and tugs – the way his muscles tighten under the strain of it all; but it’s hard. Your brain stutters a little, fingers working fast to tear open a pack of antiseptic ointment.

“ _Very_ different,” you mumble, pausing and blinking up at him, “… Exit wound…?”

“ _Oh_ … No.”

Bucky pauses, catching your gaze as your face pales – he realizes what you think that means. He beat you to it.

“Dug them out already.”

He notices how you grimace and pause, considering the  _implications_ for a second. It’s enough to visibly gross you out.

“Good enough for me.”

You clench your jaw, shaking your head as you move into his lap and straddle his good thigh, eyes focused and hands fast as you quickly thread the sutures and prep the site. In moments like these, you’re thankful for that job you took one summer as a camp counselor. Stitching and basic injury treatment were coming in handy tonight.

Bucky can feel his systems slip into check when  you start; the feeling of stitches is familiar and a signal things are being repaired  – he doesn’t feel tunnel vision consume him whole, and he can even start to focus on the way you sit in his lap. You’re warm, and the weight of your hips against his thigh is welcomed; though, he can’t imagine the pistol holster digging into your leg is very comfortable. Blue eyes dip along your thighs, adam’s apple bobbing as he realizes you’ve got nothing but a pair of blue lace bottoms on underneath your oversized NYPD t-shirt.

“Eyes are up here,” you chide, shifting in his lap as you finish the stitching in his shoulder before snagging the medical scissors in the kit and swiping them across the top of his pant leg – the fibers of his pants are harder to cut through, but once you get them sliced, you have a nice clean view of the bullet wound.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah, well,  _sewing_ is good hobby to have when you’re the Winter Soldier’s sidekick.”

You lean, elbows planted on the carpet as you do the same to his knee, leaning over his lap; Bucky drops his head back against the frame of your bed – he’s trying not to check you out. But, this view is one that in any other context, he’d love to dwell on. Bucky realizes quickly he’s thinking like James – not the mind zapped Cold War weapon. It’s a relief. He tries to think about it, to focus on it.

“Please tell me the Avengers have healthcare.”

Bucky laughs, a throaty chuckle and you smile, knuckles red from the mess. Swiping at a stray piece of hair that flutters into your view, you just know you’ve definitely got blood on your face. You finish the stitching and move to wrap the new alterations, leaning back on your knees and huffing once you’re done.

His eyes are soft.

You both go quiet and you lean against the bed frame beside him, bare arm touching the cold metal of his own. He expects you to flinch, to recoil – but you don’t. You just rub at the blood caked into the creases of your palms and sigh.

He speaks first.

“Thank you.”

You go quiet, craning your neck to look up at him; your eyes linger on his as you nod. “I’d say  _anytime_ , but if I ever have to do this again –”

You fall silent again, ducking your head.

Bucky gets it. So he nods.

His fingers dig into your knee, the black gloves and metal stark against your skin, cold and hard against the soft curve of the skin there. The touch lingers, and part of you wishes he’d let it travel higher, let it really touch you. But, Bucky relinquishes his hold after a moment and heaves himself upwards.

“Sorry for the mess.”

He moves, shrugging his bullet proof vest on, snapping the mask back onto his face. For a man who’d just dug two bullets out of his body, he moves with grace. He’s light on his feet. You smile.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “The Winter Soldier is a bit of a  _slob_.”

Dark brows quirk, light blue eyes dancing with mild amusement as he adjusts the holsters around his chest – he motions to the bunched up section of your nightgown, igniting your face in pink as he winks. You laugh, mouth agape as you shake your head and cross your arms.

“Get out of here, you loser,” you quip, “And  _please_ , get those really fixed – this was janky and my first aid kit is, like, 8 years old.”

He hauls the window open, stepping onto the fire escape easily. It hurts, but not terribly now, and Bucky pops his torso back through once he gets his footing. His gloved palms brace against the stark white sill. His voice is muffled, eyes bright with affection.

“Thanks, doll.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you chime, leaning in and grinning. Your lips brush the spot where his own would be on his mask and Bucky swears that if you kiss him, getting shot twice and beaten the shit out of was worth it for this moment. Blue eyes screw shut.

And then….  _Nothing_.

Your window slams in his face.

He laughs.


	8. sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky can't sleep. You're his sidekick. So, you help.

Over the last week and a half, Bucky has become more of a constant in your life than you even imagined possible.  


He’d come in for his coffee, watch you and Matt (but mostly you; he was keeping a running tally on how many ways you wore your hair) chatter on about whatever was on the television, and he’d wave goodbye. You, of course, on your way out the door, would send him a text on that stupid flip phone he has. He’s not good at texting - not at all, but you liked to think he was trying for your sake.

(Granted, his texts  _were_ small things like ‘have a good day’ or ‘be safe’ or ‘see u later’.)

Things had started to change. Slowly, but you could feel yourself getting to the dangerous point of pining over the dark haired man. It seemed like everything he did punched you right in the chest - from those stupid, bashful smiles to the way he’d wrinkle his nose when he saw his own image on the news. Bucky was, in a lot of ways, a very attractive guy - sharp jaw, high cheekbones, baby blues… Sweet, modest, humble. Kind. Polite.

“The real question remains:  _who_ is the  _Winter Soldier_?”

A deadly killing machine with a background you were scared to ask about. The metal arm, the training. All of it.

You could see the clear anxiety in his eyes when he caught you staring one night - he’d knocked on your window in costume, and you’d smiled so big at the way he looked leaning against the fire escape. You laughed a little, slipping out of bed and padding to the window - you hauled it open, leaning your upper half out into the February cold.

His mask drowned out his words, but you could hear the softness in his voice.

“I was doing rounds, thought I would say good night.”

Bucky swears he’s becoming dependent on your smile. Seeing your grin, seeing your cheeks go rosy as you glow with warmth. He thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. It makes all the mess in his head go away, it makes the screams and he fear go silent. For a few moments, it’s bliss.

He realized, on that fire escape, he was starting to harbor feelings for you.

Bucky has never been so terrified in his life.

“Could it be he’s a military experiment gone  _wrong_?”

You groan, shutting off the television as a segment rerun speculating the Winter Solider’s identity flashed across the screen. It was like he was everywhere, in the shop, on your phone, in your head, on the TV.

You turn back to the Biostatistic notes splayed across your bed, fingers fiddling with a ballpoint pen. Time to focus. Homework. Not Bucky.

But, in the last few days, you’d noticed a shift in his behavior. He was slower than usual, the bags under his eyes  _substantially_ darker. He would order a large coffee, too. And he would  _sit_. And he would stare into space. You’d putter over on a break, gently lay a hand on his shoulder — and he’s jump about six feet in the air, eyes wide with fear. It would ebb away after realization dawned on him that it was you, he was in the shop.

It worried you. And you thought about it a lot.

You move towards the phone on your nightstand, unplugging it from its charger and sighing softly as you sift through the four or five notifications on the lock screen.

Someone favorited something on your Twitter, a new CNN headline, a new Instagram follower…

Bucky Barnes, twenty minutes ago. A text.

Two words, and they slip from your lips like a whisper.

“ _Need you._ ”

Three loud knocks rattle your window pain and you jump, eyes wide as you spot the figure on the other side. No mask, no glowing gunmetal arm. A hoodie, a ball cap. It’s the man in question - of course it is.

He looks… out of it.

You pry open the window, brows knotted in worry as Bucky shifts on his feet. His adam apple bobs as he swallows, hands jammed into his pockets. You can see the tired look in his eyes. It hurts.

“Are you okay?”

Buck’s nose wrinkles. His brows twitch.

He shakes his head.

Your chest  _aches_.

“Come on, Buck,” you mumble, “It’s cold out. Get in here.”

He slips through the window and you close it, locking the frame and drawing the shades. You note the way his eyes dance across the string lights illuminating the head of your bed - in the warm yellow glow, Bucky looks worse for wear.

You pad beside him, a gentle hand touching his elbow.

He visibly flinches. And you retract, guilt hammer on in your chest.

“… Buck,” you whisper, calling his head around and he blinks down to you, “What’s wrong?”

You watch his brows weave together, his mouth part slightly like he’s about to speak - the gears are turning, he’s trying to word it, to put it together. So you let him. You wait, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I… I’m afraid to  _sleep_.”

It’s barely a whisper; his head ducks, eyes hitting the floor. You frown and feel your face soften. Bucky side steps, hands flying from his pockets and dropping his baseball cap onto your desk. His fusses with his hair. He starts to pace.

You’re watching him fall apart. And you don’t know what to do.

“I’ve been having these  _nightmares_. They’re bad, a-and you’re in them and  _I kill you_ and I can’t have  _one more_ of them or _I think I’ll go fucking insane._  They… They feel so  _real_ and I can’t - I shouldn’t be  _here_ because if I hurt you —“

You plant yourself in front of him, hands on his waist.

“Breathe.”

You watch his nostrils flare, you watch him shake and you watch his eyes go dangerously glassy. He does as he’s told, inhaling and exhaling with his eyes on the floor.

“Stay here tonight.”

“ _No_.”

It’s automatic, a reflex. He continues. “I  _can’t_ … If I  _hurt_ you…”

“You won’t hurt me, Bucky.”

“You don’t  _know that!”_

You recoil slightly, the volume of his voice startling you. You’re thankful Marissa is out with her other half. Bucky’s face immediately flood with guilt, blue eyes wide with conflict.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t  _yell_ , I’m just so…” he grits his teeth, “I’m so  _tired_. And  _angry_. And… And  _I just want to sleep._ ”

“Cranky,” you offer, hand venturing to find his metal one. Your face is soft. Bucky feels his chest tighten - out of panic and out of affection, “You  _aren’t_ going to hurt me. Because I  _trust_ you. You’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and…”

_ And you think you’re in love with him. _

_ He’s in love with you; you solidify it with every word. _

His fingers are cold against yours, but you don’t mind. You fiddle with them, splaying the digits and admiring how they flex. The plating is some foreign metal; someone put a lot of work, a lot of research, into this price of biomedical tech.

“I don’t know anything  _about_ you,” you say softly, “Who you are or what happened to you — and I’m not  _asking_ for answers. When you’re ready, I know you’ll tell me, but  _nothing’s going to change the way I already feel_.”

You watch Bucky’s chest rise and fall. He wants to kiss you.

“Stay  _here_. Get some sleep,” you offer again, stepping closer and holding his left hand gently between your fingers, “I’ll stay here. I’ll make sure no nightmares happen.”

He’s quiet, considering the overwhelming fear of hurting you, considering staying with the one person who seems to quiet it all down in his head. Bucky’s eyes fleet across your face and you smile, soft and tight lipped and he knows he’s not leaving your apartment until the next morning.

“The floor?”

“ _No_ ,” you nearly shout, eyes wide as you tug on his hand, “No, you’re not sleeping on the floor. Bed. And I’ll…”

You flounder a little, wishing completely that you could curl up beside him.

“Couch. I’ll stay on the couch.”

Bucky’s eyes seem to fill up with that nervous anxiety and you back track. Wrong answer. You blink.

“Okay, no couch… I’ll…”

“Just…” he croaks, “With  _me_.  _Please_.”

You freeze a little, watching how his eyes screw shut. He speaks quietly. His voice cracks.

“You’re the only thing that makes the bad things in my head go away.”

“ _God_ , Buck,” you mumble, moving close to wrap your arms around his shoulders and tug him into a tight embrace. He melts against you, curling around your frame and pressing his face into the bare juncture between you neck and shoulder. His five o’ clock shadow tickles. Your fingers rubs his back, carding through his hair quickly as you frown. Pulling back, you plant your hands on the sides of his face. “You want some tea? It’s… It’s sleepy time tea. When I can’t sleep, it helps.”

A soft nod. You mimic the motion.

“Okay,” a whisper, “Let me go make some. And… And I’ll get you some shorts, if you want. Marissa’s partner leaves a few outfits over here…”

“I… I can just…” he motions to his jeans, “It’s okay.”

You double back, leaning into the doorway. Your voice is light with humor.

“If you’re trying to sleep in  _jeans_ , Bucky, that’s why you haven’t been able to. That’s a  _real_ nightmare.”

He smiles, following you like a lost puppy.

Your apartment is small, modest, with a small living area and a kitchenette and a hallway leading to your room mate’s room on the opposite side. It reminds Bucky of somewhere he’s been before - maybe it’s the size. Maybe it’s the aged wallpaper. He’s not sure.

The floorboards creak under his steel toed work boots.

You’re smaller than him, lighter, and your bare feet pad along into the kitchen - he watches you ready a mug of hot water from the red machine on the counter. Stark has one. It spits out coffee that taste mostly like water to him.

It hums, warming the water, and you sip past him and down the hall into Marissa’s room - returning quickly with a pair of athletic shorts and an oversized Brooklyn Bakers t-shirt. It’s blue. You’re not entirely convinced it will fit him.

Bucky wanders along, following you to the counter as you grab a mug off the highest shelf - he notes how you stretch, how your t-shirt rides up along your legs and reveals another pair of lace bottoms. These ones are different from the night he crawled through the window bloodied and bruised. Those were blue.

He  _likes_ you in  _pink_.

The mug is in his hands before he realizes it, and you’re ushering him back to bed - back to your room where you close the door quietly and begin to clear your notes off the comforter. They find a spot beside his hat on your desk. 

Bucky changes quickly, back turned as he hauls his hoodie and his long sleeve off.

You catch a glimpse of the way his arm is hardwired to his torso. The scar tissue is bad there, and along the expanse of his back, he has various marks and scars. Long ones, ragged ones. Entry wounds, exit wounds.

You  _try_ not to stare.

Thank god the shorts fit, and the shirt too, but it’s small - his waist looks even smaller in it, shoulders bulky with muscle. Bucky is, in every way, a sight for sore eyes. And he catches you  _trying_ not to stare.

“It doesn’t scare you?”

You blink.

“Your arm?”

He nods.

“I’m a biomedical student, Bucky. That kind of thing… That’s a marvel of  _biomedical technology_. Whoever created that… They were very smart,” you ramble, moving the decorative pillows aside as Bucky sips the tea, “But, I wasn’t staring at your arm.”

“You weren’t.”

Not a question. He knows. Your cheeks go rosy. He likes it.

The clock beside your bed blares an angry 12:31AM.

“You have work in the morning.”

“I’ll call out,” you say, watching Bucky clamber under the sheets, “If that will help you sleep.”

His face goes soft. He metal hand reaches out, patting the spot beside him. You smile. You shut the lights off. The room is only in darkness. Bucky feels his chest tighten when you curl up beside him, knees brushing slightly as you wiggle under the covers. He likes watching you.

You both slip into silence, watching each other intently for a few beats of time. Bucky moves first. He lifts the covers and offers for you to come closer - and you do. His hand finds the curve of your waist as you lean into his chest - your leg hitched up and drapes lazily across his thigh. Your fingers fleet across his chest, knitting into the fabric of his t-shirt. You’re warm and lovely. It’s intimate. Bucky swears it’s heaven.

Your nose is pressed into his neck, and soon he’s starting focus on mimicking your breathing; slow and even and for the first time in days, things are quiet. He’s on the verge, tipping into sleep. You reach, movements heavy and slow, and knot your fingers with his metal ones. Bucky inhales, nosing a kiss into the crown of your hair. You smile. He feels it.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Buck.”


	9. wake up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

You’d shared beds with boyfriends before – not that Bucky was your  _boyfriend_ – but the comparison lays in how  _comfortable_ you’d been.

Never  _this_ comfortable.

You tend to roll, to tangle in the sheets and  _struggle_  to get  _comfortable_ ; not tonight, it seems. Tossing and turning doesn’t wake you up. In fact, nothing does. Not Bucky’s snoring, not the way he himself spreads across the queen bed like he owns it. Come morning, you wake to the sun peaking in through the curtains, threatening to spill into the quiet room and drown it full of light.

You pry your eyes open, bleary and tired, and the cold skim of metal fingers against your bare abdomen raises goosebumps – his arm is slung around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. You can feel his chest rise and fall, his breath tickling the back of your neck. His legs are tangled in your own, knees knocking slightly as you stretch and shift against him.

His hand twitches, fingers curving against the skin of your stomach before fleeting to your hips. Bucky’s hold tightens, for a moment, and you hum a little bit. It feels nice. 

The sound wakes him enough – he inhales, prying his own eyes open to find you pressed against him; chest to chest, hip to hip. Confusion bubbles in his features when he realizes it’s nearly morning – had he  _really_ slept? No nightmares, no panic attacks.

Just quiet.

Warm.

You notice the break in the deep rhythm of his breathing and you peak over your shoulder. Your hair is a mess. Bucky doesn’t mind. He thinks, like this, you look beautiful.

“Hey there.”  


His voice is low, tired croak. “Hey.”

You smile up at him, eyes fleeting shut as you move, straddling his thigh and lay over him; he laughs a little, hands moving to skim your back as you nose along his neck. It’s cold. He fights the urge to shiver. 

You swear you could do this forever; lay beside him, hold him.

And yet, you two are nothing – not an item, certainly not  _together._

“No nightmares, huh?”  


“No,” he breathes, enjoying the weight of your body on top of his, “None.”  


Silence bounds between you both but it’s welcomed. You’re both still sleepy, and it shows in the way Bucky relaxes against the pillows and stills his ministrations up your back. When he does speak, you feel yourself wake a bit.

“You said last night you don’t really know me.”  


You raise your head, leaning up on your elbows and letting your eyes dance across his face. He’s watching the ceiling. They flick to you. You nod softly.

“The truth is,” he mumbles, “I don’t really know who I am either. I… I  _was_ someone – back before  _this_.”  


His left arm flexes. If you listen close, you can hear the mechanisms whir. You watch his face – you measure his micro-expressions. His nose crinkles. His eyes close. 

“I’m trying to remember,” he says, “And I… I walk around Brooklyn sometimes trying to find that person inside of me. He –  _I_ was from Brooklyn.”  


You’re quiet, and Bucky is worried he’s scared you; but your fingers move to his hair. They card a few strands back and away and he thinks you might be an angel.

You don’t understand. Not fully, but you get the idea he doesn’t really either.

“I’ll help you remember,” you shrug, “I’m your sidekick, you know? Helping is in the job description.”  


His smile wrinkles the corners of his eyes.

Bucky can feel his chest tighten, his heart skip a little bit, and the words he’s been wanting to ask you for the last week fly off his tongue. He stammers and he struggles and he  _doesn’t think about it_ until it’s in the air between you.

“Maybe… I know a few good places in Brooklyn. Maybe – Maybe I could take you out sometime.”  


Your face splits into a beam and Bucky thinks it’s like holding a star. 

“Are you asking me out?” you laugh a little, cheeks pink, eyes bright, “Because if you are –”  


“I am.”  


“Then yes.”  


His own smile is enough to make you swoon; it’s a rarity, but it’s toothy and happy and care free and you think that if you could see it everyday of your life you would.

“Do the Avengers give you time off, Winter Solider?”  


You say it coyly, with a small smirk and he swallows, nodding slowly and sitting up a bit, enough to admire the way your freckles look in the morning light.

“I think I could swing something.”  


“Friday?”  


“Yeah,” he nods, eyes bounding across your face, “Friday.”  


“Friday.”  


You say it, slow and soft, not really thinking about the words – you’re a little too preoccupied with how close his face is to yours. His eyes slip to your lips, and you swear you could seal the deal then and there –

_ BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP _

Your eyes widen. Bucky lets out a pained exhale as you sit up, pulling yourself away from him.

It’s your phone.

You forgot to call Matt, to tell him you weren’t going to be in.

_Oops._


	10. bucky & the team have a chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walk of shame is amplified for Bucky when he has to explain where he's been sneaking off to.

Bucky makes it back to the tower by noon, and buzzes into the elevator only to be greeted by F.RI.D.A.Y.’s voice over the intercom. He  _knows_ what’s about to happen. But it doesn’t make it any more enjoyable.

_“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. Captain Rogers is waiting for you in the lounge.”_  


Bucky exhales, rubbing his face as he nods. Realizing F.R.I.D.A.Y. is waiting for a response, he croaks. “Right – Uh, tell him I’m coming right up.”

_“Will do, Sergeant Barnes.”_  


Sure enough, when the elevator dings open, it’s not  _just_ Steve waiting for him. No, it’s Tony reclined on the sofa watching amused, it’s Sam doing the same. Wanda is in the kitchenette, pretending not to eavesdrop. Natasha is  _grinning_ like a shark from her spot at the table, sipping her coffee.

Bucky visibly deflates.

“Bucky boy!” Tony claps, “Welcome  _back_!”  


“Where  _were you_?” Steve pouts, hands on his hips and Bucky remember his mother Sarah copping the same move in the kitchen one July night after they’d been out gallivanting through the neighborhood until  _late_. The memory socks him in the jaw. He smiles.   


“You’re doing that thing,” Bucky says quietly, worming past Steve and into the kitchenette for coffee. Wanda offers him a mug. “Your mom used to do that.”  


Steve flounders for a second, and Tony grins. He sits up, brows raised and peaks back at Bucky. “You’re  _awfully chipper_ this morning, Buckeroo… Did someone get laid?”

“He was definitely with a  _girl_ ,” Wanda offers from beside Bucky, sipping her tea, “She has nice perfume.”  


Bucky chokes on his coffee, clearing his throat as he screws his brows together and gives Tony a look that would scare any  _other_ man shitless. Tony just grins. Wanda, all the while, gives Nat a smile before settling by her at the table. Both women share a knowing look. Suddenly, Bucky is  _very much_ in the spotlight and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Is she nice?” Nat asks, voice gentle and coaxing – he can’t help but nod.  


“Yeah.”   


A beat of a moment passes, and he speaks again. “M’ going out with her on Friday.”

“ _What?”_ Steve nearly yelps, eyes bright as he rounds the counter and claps Bucky’s chest, “You’re kidding me.”  


Steve is  _smiling_ , and it’s one thing Bucky feels comfortable around – it’s a warm reminder of their friendship, and in the recent weeks he’s noticed how the brevity of a word or a smile clues Buck into Steve’s thoughts and vice versa. There’s no doubting the two of them  _were close_  and regaining the territory long since lost.

“No,” Bucky laughs a little, ducking his head, “No, I’m serious.”  


Steve knocks his arm. Steve was always excited for him. “She got a  _friend_?”

Bucky  _gets_ that joke. He grins.

“You sly son of a bitch,” Sam chortles, standing to cross his arms and shake his head, “Sneakin’ out to see  _a girl_? God, Winter Solider, my ass – you’re soft, Buck. You’re the Summer Solider now.”  


Bucky knows he means it affectionately. He likes Sam. He didn’t at first. But, now, he tolerates him… And maybe enjoys his company. A little. Don’t tell Sam, though, it’ll go to his head.

“ _Please_ tell me you have a  _picture_ ,” Nat sighs, dropping her head back, “Please tell me she’s  _normal_.”  


“Is she the one from the coffee shop?” Wanda asks, brows raised, “The one two blocks down?”  


Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but Tony cuts him off.

“Ooh, a  _barista_  – it’d be great to have someone here who knows how to make a  _good_ espresso.”  


Bucky shoots Tony a look. “She’s in the NYU grad program.”

“Oh?” Tony leans on his hand, tilting his head, “For  _what_? Fashion?  _Finance_?”  


“Biomedical.”  


The billionaire’s brows raise, face creased with an impressed expression. The room ripples with murmurs of interest, and Bucky can’t help but feel a little proud. Tony hides a smile, moving to stand. “So… she’s  _smart_.”

Bucky sips his coffee. “Yeah. She’s smart.”

“And pretty?”  


“ _Very_ pretty,” he challenges, “Beautiful.”  


Steve’s face splits into a grin. Sam just chuckles, shaking his head.

Tony, from his spot across the kitchen island, crosses his arms. His eyes dance to the metal fingers clutching the coffee. No glove. Tony’s not dumb. Bucky forgets sometimes.

“So… she  _knows_.”  


Bucky’s gut sinks. The room is heavy now. Smiles dissipate.

“ _Yeah_. She knows.”  


“… That’s gunna be a  _problem_ , Buckeroo.”


	11. pre-date rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve insists Bucky doesn't look homeless for his date. Wanda helps. Bucky meets your roommate.

“I look like an idiot.”

Bucky’s hands fall, eyes tearing himself apart from his place in front of the full length mirror. Wanda, perched in the fitting room seating behind him, makes a displeased face at his reaction. Her accent lilts gently across her words.

“You look  _good_.”  


Doesn’t sound terribly convincing. Wanda  _knows_. 

The Winter Solider frowns, hair falling in his face as he blinks down at the dress shirt. “I look like a jailbird.”

“Okay,  _fine_ , no more stripes,” she chides as Steve returns from the men’s section with  _another_ arm full of clothing. Bucky’s shoulders sag and he exhales nice and long.   


“Is there a  _reason_ I can’t just wear my usual –”  


Both Steve and Wanda speak at the same time. 

“ _Yes_.”  


It wasn’t  _that bad_  – besides, you  _saw him_ in stuff like that all the time. What if he changed it up and you  _didn’t_ like it? Bucky shifts on his feet, a bit of anxiety beginning to nimble at his brain. Steve picks up on it.

“Listen, Buck, it’s nothing…  _personal_ ,” he offers, “But you’re takin’ a nice girl out.”  


“But my  _jacket_.”  


Another habit – routine and normalcy help him stay grounded. He feels comfortable in that jacket. It’s warm. Doesn’t feel too tight around his arms. The sleeves are along enough to cover his wrists. It smells like leather and exhaust and Bucky loves it.

“You can wear the jacket if you wear a dress shirt,” Wanda attempt to compromise, “ _Or_ if you settle on a nice sweater or something.”  


Sweaters he could do.

Something soft.

Steve offers him a handful of racks, and Bucky peels each piece off of himself (with varied degrees of enthusiasm from Wanda and Steve regarding the fit or style or appearance), until he settles on a nice black sweater. It’s comfortable, and Wanda seems keen on it, too. 

“Simple.”  


“Yeah,” Steve nods, crossing his arms, “Comfortable?”  


Bucky nods, fiddling with the sleeve’s hem. “Can I wear jeans…?”

Wanda smiles. It’s sweet and kind. He’s finding he’s trusting her more and more each day. It’s a good feeling. “Where are you taking her to dinner, Bucky? That might  _change_ the jeans decision.”

“It’s a small diner,” he says quietly, “Nothing special… Should – Should it be somewhere special? Fancy?”  


“ _No.”_  


Steve and Wanda do the same thing again. Bucky blinks, gaze shifting from between the two of them before he nods.

“Save the nice dinners for an anniversary,” Wanda grins, “For now, this is perfect. As long as you feel comfortable, Bucky.”  


“You look  _good_ ,” Steve’s hand meets Bucky’s back, “I’m sure your girl will be floored.”  


And you  _are_ , especially when the doorbell to your apartment rings 10 minutes early that night and you are still trying to worm into a pair of spanks and tights. You make a terrified sound and Marissa, who’d helped lay out the outfit you’d finally settled on after  _three hours of debate_ , rockets to her feet and flies into a small panic.

“Oh, god, he’s here.”  


“I  _know_ , Rissa,  _go get the door!”_  


_“Right,_ okay, yeah, no – do… Do I talk to him?”  


You deadpan. “Why are  _you_ more nervous about this than me?”

Rissa pauses, mouth gaping slightly before she clamps it shut and nods, rushing out of the room to leave you to pull on the rest of your outfit. You’d settled on a dark orange skirt and a wine color turtleneck – your boots had a generous heel, enough to give you a bit of height to compete with Bucky.

Your pony tail bobs slightly as you hop into your skirt, quickly buttoning and nearly  _falling_ into your shoes. You can  _hear_ Marissa being  _so awkward_ in the kitchen and it only spurs you on faster. Throwing a scarf around your neck and grabbing your coat, you sling your purse over your shoulder and nearly  _run_ out of the room, sparing Marissa a wide-eyed  _please stop it_ look.

Then your eyes hit Bucky and you visibly fall apart – alt the while he’s just as guilty. He looks…  _good_. Really good. Like, stupid good. He looks  _done up_ , and you note the new sweater under his jacket. You haven’t seen this pair of jeans on him yet, you think – they’re dark and a  _very_ nice cut – and his motorcycle boots catch the light as he shuffles his feet.

You look  _beautiful_ , and Bucky thinks, for the first time, he can’t do this. You look  _breathtaking,_ and your legs look so long and your hair is so neat and you have cherry red lips and…and he can’t tell if he’s on the verge of a _panic attack_ or if this is what it’s like to be in  _love_. His chest hammers. Beside him, Marissa hums.

“You both look so cute!” she chirps, “Can I take a picture?”  


“‘Rissa…” you mumble, knocking her with your elbow slightly. Bucky smiles a little at the interaction, face blooming in a rosy glow as you come closer, “ _Just one_.”  


You stop a few feet in front of him. The floor boards creak. His cologne smells nice. You smile. Bucky thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. He can’t even speak. You notice.

“You look good,” you whisper, a hand moving to adjust the hem of jacket. “New sweater?”  


A beat of silence, Bucky’s mouth quirking.

“…How’d you know?”  


“Female intuition,” you laugh a little, nails plucking the large size sticker running down the front. You pull the sticker from his sweater and Bucky’s face falls in slight mortification, “ _And_ the size sticker.”  


“I  _knew_ I was forgetting something –”  


“But, you still look good.”  


“Says you,” he mumbles, “I… You  _can’t_ be real.”  


“I am, actually,” you smooth his collar down, cheeks pink from the compliment. Your heart is warm and swelling with affection. “I’m real and I’m  _yours_ for the night, Bucky Barnes.”  


That sentence blooms more than one emotion deep inside his chest, settling in his heart – the subsequent reaction is a face splitting grin. One of those real genuine ones you obsess over. 

Marissa’s phone clicks, the sound of the shutter filling the kitchen. 

“Perfect!” Rissa yelps, hands in the air, “Now get outta here, you crazy youngsters!”  


“Okay,  _mom_ ,” you grin, snatching Bucky’s right hand and knotting your fingers with his. He happily reciprocates the movement, calloused fingers squeezing yours ever so slightly. You move, long strides carrying you to the door and out into the winter cold. You shrug your coat on.   


“See you later!” Rissa shouts, watching you both descend the complex’s staircase.

“ _Maybe!”_ you call over your shoulder, grinning slightly as it riles a nervous chuckle from Bucky – his face is hot at the insinuation he  _definitely_ didn’t miss.   


Bucky lets his hand rest on your waist as you walk.

He tries not to pass out.

And so the date begins.


	12. the date, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first part of your date. Bucky brings you to the Captain American exhibit on show.

Bucky’s elbow brushes yours as you walk.  


It’s warm for a late February night, and the walk through Manhattan is more than welcome. It cools you down a bit, face stuck in a perpetual rosy glow. The city seems to have settled into a manageable lull and for once, Bucky doesn’t feel so overwhelmed. The honking of horns and rumble of traffic seems distant with you beside him.

He’s  _happy_.

“Where  _are_ we going?” you ask, hand touching the bend of his arm as you stop, waiting for traffic to pass so you can cross along the velvety pavement.

Bucky’s skin lights up like a fire, the warmth of your fingers digging into the nerves of his metal arm beneath his jacket. Blue eyes blinks down at you, a small smile bending his lips upwards as he speaks.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I  _hate_  surprises.”

He waves, a lift of his hand, at the car that stops and lets them cross.

“Me too.”

You laugh, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him as you both weave through the busy Manhattan street. It feels like second nature to reach out and tangle your fingers loosely with his - and Bucky gives them a gentle squeeze.

You watch him. How he walks, how he bobs and weaves. It’s apparent he’s not new to the city life - and you wonder if the old part of him he’d mentioned was a city boy. He had to be. He stepped into busy streets with too much confidence to be anything but.

Bucky can feel your eyes on him as you trail behind him slightly and he turns, blue eyes catching yours - you tighten your hold on his fingers and Bucky feels as grounded as he can be in this moment. His lips quirk and motions softly with his head to the building across the street.

The pillars are bathed in warm light from the spotlights out front and taxis linger along the sidewalk while people meander on the steps. You’d been to the Natural History Museum once, before in grade school, but this time a new exhibit sports a banner draped across the main entrance. It’s a familiar face. You blink again.

“Is that…?”

“I got us tickets.”

“To  _The Making of Captain America_ …?”

Bucky has to admire the way your nose wrinkles and your brows knot in confusion. You lean into his arm, voice soft as you whisper into his ear. “Are you taking me to see an exhibit about  _your co-worker_?”

Bucky laughs, one big huff, and shakes his head. “No, I’m not… I’m not  _that_ out of touch.”

A pause. You quirk a brow. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Oh,  _can it,_ doll.”

You settle that you like when he calls you doll. It  _fits_.

* * *

 

“This exhibit,” he mumbles, fingers digging in his wallet for the tickets Tony had managed to purchase for him, “It’s travelling up from D.C. and… It’s a  _nice_  one.”

You watch him hand over the two tickets, noting the name  _STARK_ printed on the white space below the Museum of Natural History’s logo. Sometimes it’s easier to forget who the man beside you is - though, the alias of the Winter Soldier seems to be a small component of who he really is. It’s hard to imagine him being so violent, so tough in moments like these where he fumbles with his wallet and smiles at the cashier in apology.

“I thought you said  _you_ bought the tickets,” you chide, accepting them back from the cashier after they’ve been scanned. Your fingers glide along the ink with Stark’s name. Bucky clears his throat, shrugging slightly as he walks shoulder to shoulder with you through the lobby. His voice is light.

“Did I mention they don’t pay me enough?”

“Then stop spending all your money on  _coffee_ and  _donuts_ ,” you grin, wrapping your hands around his arm and beaming, hair bouncing with every step. “You know you  _can_ see me outside of work.”

His smile is tight. “I can.”

“Yeah,” you shrug, “So, next date, I’ll pay. It’s a win-win.”

Bucky can’t help but chuckle - it’s a low rumble - before securing his hand in yours. It’s a good feeling. He had honestly forgot what it was like to be touched, let alone so gently. You’re a solid reminder of the good in this world, the people who would rather hold than hurt.

“So…  _Captain America_ , huh?” you mumble as you both near the entrance to the exhibit. “You a fanboy?”

Bucky fights a smirk, nudging you gently as he eyes the banners around the exhibit. They talk of an American hero, a legendary soldier. All things Steve  _was_ and  _is_. He’s thankful they didn’t include himself on any of the banners out front. He’s sure that would have been too much of a shock to you. Too much of a shock to himself.

Bucky still doesn’t consider himself a hero. Not after everything he’s done.

He speaks slowly as you enter the main wing of the exhibit. From the arts and music section, Frank Sinatra drifts in and out - it’s light and gentle and coaxing and you blink up at Bucky as he speaks. “Remember how I said I don’t remember who I am?”

A nod. He continues. You stroll past a recruitment poster with Captain America’s face on it.

At the end of the hallway, another room sits alone from the others - the text painted above the doorway reads ‘ _THE HOWLING COMMANDOS_ ’. His feet carry him to it. He’s spent hours in that room alone, staring at the installation. Staring at the man he used to be.

You note the way Bucky’s voice shakes. He blinks up at the lettering, at the name of the unit.

“All of this helped me remember  _pieces_ \- not all of it… But  _enough_.”

He lets you go, letting your fingers lose as you blink at the dimmed blue lights of the room ahead of you. It winds, through uniforms and members, all warriors in their own respects. But, it’s not the weapons or the photos or the mission reports that get your attention. It’s the far wall.

Your feet move.

You hear the audio first.

_ “James Buchanan Barnes and Steve Rogers were inseparable on the schoolyard and in battle…” _

Staring down at you is _James Buchanan Barnes_  in uniform, crisp and clean cut and young. He looks as boyish as ever, with a wide grin that you’re sure was not allowed in regulation portraits. But, there that grin is. Beside his full body portrait is a chunk of text. He was a boxer. He was the eldest of four. He was a ladies man. He liked dancing. He was Steve Rogers best friend. And… And it’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes. The dates beside his name signify his birthday, his death day.

He was… dead.

You whip around, face murky with confusion and concern and worry and… and  _heartbreak_. You’re not sure what you expected to find, but to see Bucky visibly so guarded, so  _scared_ , ripped your heart out. It’s immediate; you rush to fix it.

“Bucky…”

He’s toeing the ground, arms crossed. His hair is in his face. “Yeah.”

A tentative hand moves to splay along his jaw. The stubble there tickles your fingertips and you exhale softly when his hand comes up to overlap your own. It’s a quiet moment. Bucky leans into your hand, blue eyes screwing shut. He needs to ground himself again, to remember where he is and who he’s with and that he’s okay.

“What on Earth  _happened_ to you?”

It’s barely a whisper, but it rocks Bucky’s chest with a heavy emotion he can’t name. He blinks, eyes fluttering to will away the watery reaction threatening to bubble up. His adam’s apple bobs.

“I fell – off a train cart. The Russians found me.”

“Russians,” you breathe, brows raising, “That explains the –”

“Star?”

You nod, visibly deflating as you note the discomfort in his voice. Bucky sees is, and he leans – his lips catch your palm and your skin lights up like fire there. The feeling of the kiss lingers and brews and you watch him closely. His eyes move, darting along your face. He’s waiting for you to say something - anything… To run in fear or to cower or… anything. But, you stand your ground and let your nails brush the curve of his jaw. It’s a lazed touch.

It lulls Bucky’s eyes shut for a moment.

“After all these years…” you say softly, “ _How_ …? I mean – Cap was frozen…”

“The Russians stuck me in a freezer, too. I  _remember_ that.  _Cold_ ,” he mumbles, “And when they needed me, they’d just heat me back up.”

“ _Jesus_.”

Disgust paints his face and he continues. “Like leftovers.”

He can see the hurt fly across your face at those words; it’s… reassuring, in an odd way. For once, Bucky feels as though his worth isn’t something insists upon but something you do as well. He feels like he’s real with you. Like he’s not some… tool.

Bucky sees the way you look at him and the way you move to shake your head. His eyes hit the floor again, quietly resigning his words and letting you insist differently. There are no words spoken, but he understands. Your body language says it all.

You’re about to move closer, to tug him into a tight embrace and smother those degrading words with your mouth when a family shuffles by, eyes tied to the displays in wonder and curiosity – you pull away from Bucky and he does the same, coughing slightly as he stretches his shoulders.

There’s a beat of discomfort before you reach out and tug his left hand into a tight hold.

“Speaking of left overs…” You try to work a smile out of him, “You hungry?”

Bucky drags his gaze back to you, face soft with slight awe in your ability to recover and rebound and understand him so readily.

He’s not hungry. He lies.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”


	13. the date, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You share a milkshake. Peter Parker interrupts. Finally, you both kiss.

Bucky Barnes forgot how much he liked french fries.  


He had never been a picky eater – he remembers not having the  _luxury_ as a kid. French fries, like anything else  _greasy_ and  _good_ during his childhood, were a rare occasion.

He’s essentially hoarding his basket, one bare hand and one gloved hand wrapped around a very, very big burger as he shoves it halfway down his throat. It’s a force of habit. Protect your food from scavenging younger sisters, and eat quickly before the guards come and take it away. Two separate habits built from two separate personas.

You’re sitting across from him at the table, grinning as you lean and take a long sip from the chocolate shake poised in the center of the opalescent table.

Behind you, echoing out the jukebox, some soft war-time ballad sways along through the nearly empty diner.

It’s late.

He’d gained his appetite on the walk to the diner – you were good at distracting him like that. You chatted about work and class and anything that came to fruition. It took his mind off the darker parts of himself. You knew it was working when you made him laugh.

Now, Bucky is thinking about one thing and it’s that these burgers were better than he remembered. Steve and him used to split a basket of fries and grab their shakes to go. It was cheaper back then, and things were a little bit shinier, but it seems like the diner had stayed in the family and whoever had inherited it had taken care of it.

Bucky chews happily, a bit of tomato slipping from his burger as he juggles the mess. You watch how he eyes the meal, face relaxed and demeanor significantly different from before at the museum. His sweater is pushed up, rolled around his right wrist – but his left? He doesn’t dare push it up.

Maybe you were staring for too long.

You look up from his arm, gaze darting up the muscle there before realizing he’s got you pinned under the same type of curious look.

You quirk a brow, head tilting a bit as you munch on an onion ring. “What?”

“How are you eating it so… easily?”

His head motions to your burger – you’d been careful to take calculated bites, to poke the lettuce and cheese and tomato and onion out evenly. Your face blooms into a triumphant grin. In comparison, his own burger is a massacre in it’s basket.

“You’re looking at a burger champion,  _old man_.”

Bucky fights a weighted smile, licking his lips and nodding as he returns to his burger and takes a big bite. He talks with his mouth full. You think it’s kind of cute.  _You’re in deep_.

“I’m  _not_ an old man.”

You shrug, picking up your own burger and taking a clean bite. Bucky wrings the napkin in his hand, wiping at his face. He smiles, chewing on a couple of fries as you speak, “ _Whatever you say_ , old man.”

Bucky shakes his head, battling a grin as he clenches his jaw. His boot toes your own under the table and you laugh into the bite, covering your mouth and chewing quickly. Your eyes are soft with humor.

“Are you trying to play footsie with me, James?”

His grin is big as he leans, sipping from the shared chocolate shake and shrugging.

“So what if I am?”

“Then I’d say you’re pretty  _terrible_ at it.”

His foot nudges yours again and you beam, taking a big bite of your burger and nudging him back. Bucky leans back against the booth, eyes taking you in. You’re beautiful, and Bucky can’t think he’s ever thought that when watching a girl shove a burger half-way down her throat. But, there’s a first for everything. He munches on his fries.

A bit of ketchup dribbles down your chin.

“You’re staring  _again_ , Bucko,” you chide through a mouthful as you reach for a napkin, “I know I’m  _pretty_ but –”

“ _Beautiful_.”

The correction slams you in the chest and you feel a little jump of your heart spur heat across your face. You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you swallow and wring the napkin in your hands.

“Yeah, well,” you mumble, foot nudging his - but gentler this time, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Even when I eat like animal?”

He’s biting into his burger again, condiments smearing along his cheek, and half of the toppings slipping from the bun. It only makes you laugh again, bright and happy. You move, snatching a napkin. Bucky chews, burger lowered as he watches you lean up on your elbows, moving to wipe the smeared mess from his cheek.

“Even when you eat like an animal.”

He closes his eyes, face screwed into a smile, before pulling them open once you seem to get most of it. The gesture leaves his heart burning – and it shows. His cheeks are rosy. You notice, but you don’t say anything. You just admire the lovesick look that washes over his face.

A comfortable beat of silence washes over the both of you, each finishing your burgers respectively and moving onto the basket of fries. The jukebox shifts tracks; you recognize the song – and Bucky seems to as well, though the recognition lights up his eyes.

_“They’ll be bluebirds over… the white cliffs of Dover… tomorrow, just you wait and see…”_

“Vera Lynn,” Bucky mumbles, “This is Vera Lynn,  _isn’t it?”_

You nod, watching him drum his fingers on the table. He’s thinking, eyes bouncing back and forth.

“ _Falsworth_. Falsworth had the hots for her.”

James Montgomery Falsworth. Little memories, little words, little strings of songs and laughter come to mind. He sees Falsworth’s beret. It’s red.

He must be talking about one of the Howling Commandos. You settle back in your seat, watching him bloom into a contented smile. Bucky seems a little bit more sure of himself, listening to the song and mouth moving as he recognizes small lines here and there. You watch, eyes taking in the way his fingers drum and his head bobs and he laughs a little to himself.

“You’re really  _something_ , Bucky Barnes.”

It’s just barely a whisper and it’s drowned in affection; Bucky’s eyes snap to you, blue and bright, and he swallows as you smile at him. He feels a little bit like a deer in headlights when you say things like that – but inside he’s blooming with a healthy and happy feeling that soothes the aches and fears settled in his bones.

“If you weren’t so far away I’d kiss you.”

It slips past his lips before he can even stop it, and the air seems sweeter now that it’s out in the open. You chew your lip, fighting a bright grin as you lean up on your elbows again – but this time you bright yourself closer than before.

Bucky shifts, leaning himself forward onto the table. His own smile is boyish; it’s reminiscent of the photo you saw of Sergeant Barnes back in the exhibit. You like it.

“How’s this?” you ask, cheeks sore from the smile that’s dug into your dimples and set a permanent residence there.

Bucky’s about to answer, about to close the distance and throw his self control out the window until he makes immediate eye contact with one of the three teenagers who stroll through the door. Bucky’s smile melts, eyes closing for a second in mild annoyance. You notice, just in time to hear a cheerful shout cut through the quiet of the diner.

“Mister Barnes!  _Hey!”_

“Hi  _Peter_.”

It’s said with such potent annoyance you have to smother a laugh with your hand. The teenager, no older than seventeen, skips over quickly; his face is plastered with an excited smile and you note how his friends watch the interaction. The girl, tall and dark skinned, seems to scoff as Peter stammers.

“It’s – uh, it’s good to see you, man!”

“Isn’t it past your  _bedtime_ , Peter?” Bucky says slowly, eyebrows quirked as he leans around Peter to peek at his friends.

“It’s a Friday, Buck,” you nudge his foot, giving him an amused look, “Bedtimes don’t apply to  _Fridays_.”

Peter’s grin falters a bit, realization socking him in the jaw as he puts two and two together. You’re both… sitting.  _Alone_. His eyes bound to the empty milkshake in the center of the table with two straws poking out. And – he’s never  _seen_ you before. Not around the tower at least. And Mr. Stark had mentioned Bucky having some sort of  _date_ this week. The high schooler swallows, balking slightly at the  _daggers_ coming from Bucky’s eyes.

“I’m interrupting.”

“You  _are_ ,” Bucky offers, “So, if you wouldn’t mind, Peter –”

“How do you two know one another again?”

Bucky and Peter blink back at you; you’re reclined in the booth, arms crossed with an amused look plastered on your face. You know, of course, and Bucky exhales slowly as Peter begins to trip through an explanation.

“I… I, uh, I do the Stark Internship a-and, uh, Mr. Barnes here does…”

Peter’s hands motion, a pained expression on his face.

“I do  _repair_ ,” Bucky deadpans, shooting Peter a look.

“I thought you did  _security_?” you feign confusion and Bucky nearly laughs; he chews his lip, hiding an evident smile.

“He… uh, he does… secuu _uuuurity repair_ ,” Peter draws out the words as he tries to think of how the heck that would even make sense, but you seem a bit preoccupied in watching Bucky fiddle with his hands to notice Peter’s discomfort, “Well, uh, it was nice to meet you –”

You offer a hand and a name. Peter graciously accepts it.

“Sorry for interrupting your  _date_ , Mr. Barnes!”

“Do  _all_ of your coworkers know you’re on a date?”

Bucky’s face is hot and he exhales again, shaking his head and rubbing his jaw. Peter suddenly gets it, and is quick to hightail it out of there – returning to his friends at the bar as the settle in to order milkshakes.

Bucky’s thankful the waitress arrives shortly after, scooping up the trays and empty milkshake glass and swaps the mess for a check.

You speak quietly. “The Stark Internship? Is that what Tony Stark calls it?”

Bucky gives you a look, blinking up as he folds a five dollar bill in for a tip. Tucking his wallet into his back pocket, the Winter Soldier scoots out of the booth and snatches your coat from the peg on the side of the booth. You watch as he holds the jacket out, motioning for you to stand.

You do, and Bucky helps you into your coat.

His fingers brush your neck and you try not to think about how close he is for too long – it’s tempting.

Grabbing your purse, Bucky’s quick to entwine his fingers with yours. He waves goodbye to the waitress and gives Peter a quick nod. Meanwhile, you grin, waving your free hand at Peter as Bucky ushers you out of the diner.

“Good luck with your internship, Peter!”

“ _Oh!_  Thanks!”

The second your out the door, you’re laughing and Bucky is too – he shakes his head, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as you press yourself flush to his side. Your laughs drift, hands tucked under his coat and scaling along his back as you walk. The feeling is nice. Bucky smiles down at you.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” he mumbles, shaking his head as you grin up at him.

“ _Good_ ,” you chide, “You guys need to work on cover stories.”

“It’s mostly just Peter,” Bucky offers, leading you along the sidewalk and back to your apartment, “He’s young. And bad at lying.”

“Really bad.”

“ _Terrible_.”

There’s a beat of silence before you laugh again, a hand braced against his abdomen as you walk. You feel the muscles tense there under his dark sweater. Your ponytail dances against his shoulder as you lean, matching his strides. You like being this close to him. He’s warm.

Bucky thinks he’s died and gone to heaven.

“…You never kissed me,” you say a few minutes into your walk. You’re a few feet from your apartment now and you know Marissa is going to be waiting up, peeking out the window to see whatever she could. If anything, you’d much rather kiss him out here on the street than back on your stoop. Away from prying eyes. But, Bucky keeps walking.

He hums. “I didn’t.”

His steps slow before he stops in front of your apartment’s stoop. You try and calm yourself down, enough to at least remember to breathe, but your words come out rushed and quick when you speak.

“So are you going to?”

The question spurs his own heart into a kickup, and Bucky think this has got to be a dream – some sort of twisted fantasy that isn’t real. He can’t remember the last time he was this happy, the last time someone touched him and wanted to touch him more. A kiss,  _though small_ , seems so precious and perfect and validating. He feels normal. He feels like he isn’t some broken man.

“I think so,” he says quietly, “I figure Marissa will be watching –”

Your hands travel to his waist as you stand in front of him. Bucky’s stomach jumps at the touch. You smile. “She’s nosy.”

“Let her be.”

It’s a mutter, words slipping across your lips as he leans down and kisses you carefully. He’s gentle and slow and his hands slip upwards to cradle your jaw like you’re made of porcelain. To Bucky, you’re a dream and he’s afraid of waking up. Your fingers bunch into his sweater and you pop onto your tiptoes, enough to gain a bit of a sturdier kiss.

Bucky hums, smile blooming against your lips as he presses onward, hands holding you a bit tighter and lips moving against yours with a little bit more intention. He’s the one he pulls away, whose lips are pulled apart in slight awe – you move to touch his hand, to thank him for dinner and tell him you had a good time.

But, he kisses you again, quick and fast and peppers another two kisses along your cheeks. His stubble tickles and you screw your eyes shut, nose wrinkling as you’re swept into his arms. It’s easy, it doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable. His nose bumps yours and you smile.

“Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Next time I’ll pay?”

“Only if it’s somewhere cheap,” he says, leaning back and squeezing your hand, “You have bills to pay.”

“What, they don’t charge you rent over at the tower?”

“No,” he laughs, “I  _earn_ my keep.”

You bite your lip, smothering a laugh as you drag yourself back to him; you slip onto you tippy toes again and kiss him sweetly. Your words are quiet. “Tell the Winter Soldier I say  _hi,_ okay?”

Bucky’s face is hot as he ducks his eyes to the pavement. You pull away, letting go of his hand reluctantly as you begin to hike up the steps. He watches as you dig your keys from your purse.

“I’ll make sure he gets the message.”

Another smile.

Bucky feels like he’s going to pass out.

“Good night, Bucky.”

“Night, doll.”

Your door closes, but not until he hears the excited shrieks of your roommate echo off the walls of the apartment. He laughs, toeing the ground as the door closes.

Sure enough, the moment it does, his cell phone buzzes in his back pocket.

It’s Stark.

Overhead, Bucky hears the whirr of jet propulsion engines and suddenly he realizes Marissa wasn’t the  _only one watching._


	14. revenge world tour, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're ghosted after your date. Tony Stark is to blame.

Bucky doesn’t come in for coffee the next morning.  


And when you text him, wondering sweetly if maybe he had “avenging to do”, your text is met with silence. Nothing. You don’t text him again until late that night when you’ve hiked back from the shop in the rain. You ride the subway in silence. You have your earbuds in. No music. Your body rocks with the train. Your fingers move quick across your phone screen.

_ I hope everything’s okay? _

You make it to your apartment, sad and somber and angry. You’re soaked to the bone and weighed down. The growing anxiety that Bucky had decided you weren’t worth his time, or maybe he didn’t like you enough was eating away at you, and though it feels childish, you cry. It’s muffled into the sleeve of your NYU sweatshirt.

Marissa comes in, having heard the quieted sobs, and offers you some microwaved pizza. You decline, to sick on sadness to think about eating.

“Sometimes boys just don’t work out,” she said, “No matter  _how much_  we like them.”

You look like hell, and the next morning? Still nothing. No texts, no Bucky. The coffee shop is slow and empty thanks to the rain. You feel the same way. You try not to let Matt into the inner turmoil, but he knows something’s not right.

You push the feelings down and away and pretend you’re fine.

You do for the whole week.

And then you begin to think you’re never going to see Bucky Barnes again.

Until, one night, on your walk back from campus, you notice you’re being followed. It’s a taxi - or at least you’d thought - until it follows you to the subway stop and a man in a suit steps out. He’s bigger, no older than his mid-forties, looking less than pleased with the rain. He sits in the same subway cart as you, gets off at the same stop. He walks past your apartment, though, and from your dining room window you watch him climb into another car. A black Lincoln.

The license plate reads  _‘HAPPY’._

The back window has a  _Stark Industries_ decal on it.

You begin to notice more of strange little things like this - the same man comes in and gets coffee one morning. You pretend you have no idea who he is, but your heart rate is pounding and you’re half-convinced he’s going to gun you down at register one.

He doesn’t though. He sits, he watches, he sips his coffee. You think maybe this is some kind of intimidation play.

You stand your ground though; you even bus his table, smiling and asking him how his day is.

When he’s leaving, you snap a picture of him, pretending to snapchat, and you save it.

_ Sniped. _

You reverse image search him when you get home that night and land a positive ID. You’re hunched over coffee and the notes surrounding your midterm thesis paper around integrated militarized biotech. The blue light of your laptop illuminates the room, and you  _cheer_ , mouth full of popcorn, when you nail his name down.

You think maybe Bucky would be proud of you. You’re a good sidekick. But, well, that ship has sailed. Your heart hurts a little bit thinking about him.

The guy from the shop is  _Harold Hogan_. Personal bodyguard and trainer to the one and only _Tony Stark_.

You begin to note more Stark property along your walk to work. The building across from you has been bought out. Apparently some housing project Stark is working on. You learn to look at the license plates. The Avengers Tower decal for parking is minuscule but apparent if you know where to look. It includes security clearance.

You’re clearly  _being watched._

And then your wifi starts to act up, too. Through some more backwards engineering, you delve into the internal system codes of the apartment router and find that a external proxy has been set up. Your cookies, data, history and any and all saved files are being copied and routed to an apartment in Queens. You get the IP address. You track it to a  _May Parker._

No doubt a relation to _Peter Parker._

No doubt you were being watched thanks to that  _Stark Internship._

You call Bucky that night, curse him out on his voicemail - it’s long winded and angry and maybe you had a  _little_ bit  _too much_ wine - and tell him to tell Stark to fuck off. You don’t hear anything back, but you’re sure  _someone_  got the message – if anything, Stark probably tapped into your cell  _long_   _ago_.

Things are starting to stack up against Iron Man.

You’re starting to think maybe there’s a reason why you haven’t seen Bucky Barnes. That reason has got to be Tony Stark.

You’re not sure why, but you can’t let it go. You know deep down it’s because you like Bucky far too much for it to just  _slip_  your mind. You didn’t date often – and Bucky was pretty. Handsome and funny and shy and…  _Sad_. You find yourself worrying about him, wondering if he’s walking around Brooklyn late at night, trying to find himself. You hope he’s okay. You regret telling him he  _‘fucking sucks’_ on his voicemail the other night.

So, you start to formulate a plan. You think about sauntering right into the Tower downtown, strolling up the reception and asking for Tony Stark – but no doubt the man was busy, and there was no guarantee security wouldn’t drag you out kicking and screaming when they explained he wasn’t there and  _no_ , you couldn’t speak to him.

Email was a no-go. He’d probably just ignore it. Phone, too.

You could knock on Peter Parker’s door and interrogate the  _high schooler_ for information on why you’re being watched. But, you knew why you were being watched – it was because you  _knew_ too much about Bucky Barnes.

Then, when you think you’re shit bum out of luck, an opportunity falls into your lap. Trips and lands. You catch it by the throat.

* * *

Your last class of this particular Thursday is a lab; normally running about four hours, it leaves you hungry and tired and wanting nothing more than to bolt home and kick start your homework. Though working on your actual conceptualized thesis is fun, time seems to drag on.

But, today, you were talking internships.

“You know,” your professor’s name is Sarah – she insists you call her Sarah – and she’s sweet. The class is dominated by men mostly, so she excitedly chatters with you when she can. You like it. Sarah leans against your lab bench after the small lecture. You’re soldering some wires together on the mechanisms functions panel, “I have a certain internship in mind for you.”

“ _Oh_?” you say, a smile tugging at your face, “ _Please_ , enlighten me.”

Sarah laughs. “I got an email earlier this week… NYU typically  _isn’t_  one of the Universities gets these type of offers, but…  _Stark Industries is looking to hire._ ”

You feel the color drain from your face. “Stark Industries, huh?”

“They’re looking for medical students, actually,” she murmurs, “But, I want  _you_  to apply. You’re biomedical and you’re  _great_ , so if anything, they’ll be even more interested.”

“Have you… put my name down on anything yet?”

_ Please say no, please say no. _

“No,” she says and you nearly cheer, “But, the interviews are next Monday – are you interested? I can always email them back –”

_ “No!” _

Sarah nearly jumps back.

“I mean –  _yes_ , I’m interested,” you reassure her, gloved hand touching the sleeve of her lab coat, “I’m just thinking maybe don’t let them know who I am or my major or…? They might discriminate because of the medical thing…”

Totally not because of other reasons.

“Right!” Sarah hums, “You’re so right. And the best part? You’ll be surprising  _Tony Stark_.”

You nearly laugh in her face. “Are you saying…”

“He’s doing the interviews – some special  _involvement campaign_ , I guess. He wants to get to know our grads, get to know  _who_ he’s hiring. After the whole  _H.Y.D.R.A. infiltration_  thing, it makes sense. A lot of grads have turned it down, but I can dig up some recommendations for you. You can bring them with you –”

“ _Please_ do,” you grin, hands clasped in a tight ball, “You’re the best.”

Sarah grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she claps you on the shoulders. “I’m so excited!”

_ Me too, Sarah. Me too. _

* * *

It’s 8:30 am, Monday morning.

Marissa is looking at you like you have three heads.

You’re tugging on your patent leather heels, sweeping your hair into a professional looking bun. The romper you have on is black with a dipping neckline – your blazer is bright red. You feel like you could kill a man with a single look. It’s a confidence boost. You need all the help you’re going to get.

“So… you’re meeting with Tony Stark. For the internship.”

“Well,” you mumble, bobby pin between your teeth as you fix your bun, “Not really.”

Marissa blinks down at your resume. In fine print, along the top, under your name, it reads:

_ ‘Please, ask me about my slideshow!’ _

“You… You have a  _slideshow_.”

You swivel your laptop across the kitchen counter. The screen glows alive with the slideshow in question.

Marissa’s jaw drops. She reads from the title slide.

_ “Why I’d Like Tony Stark to Fuck Off?” _

You shoot her an award winning smile, sweeping your resume and faux cover letter into a protective cover. It slips neatly into your handbag and you yank the memory drive from your laptop as well.

“Is this some activism stuff?” she mumbles, “Anti-Avengers propaganda?”

You pause.

“ _Sure_.”

And with that, you’re out the door. Behind you, Marissa shouts.

_ “Let me know if I have to bail you out of jail!” _


	15. revenge world tour, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony didn't think you were this smart. Turns out you get the internship? Bucky's workout is interrupted.

Tony  _knew_ it wasn’t going to end well.  


Well, he didn’t know for  _sure_.

But he knew that there was a big possibility of things going sideways between you and Barnes. And from there? Tony’s anxiety grew. He micromanaged. He pushed, and pulled the leader card. He told Barnes to stay away from you – you would be safer. From him and from Bucky’s old pals. The fear was enough to settle the Winter Soldier into ghosting you.

Bucky was a  _wreck_ , though, and everyone had picked up on it.

He wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions anymore. That filter flew out the window when he realized he wasn’t some brainwashed fist. He wanted to be angry. He spent years being so  _numb_ , so unaware of himself.

Bucky spends hours in the gym, running and sparring and running and sparring.

Whenever he was in the kitchen, he’d slam things. It was  _worse_  when Tony was around. 

Steve and Sam tried to coach him through it, like a break-up, but Bucky shut them down. He didn’t want to talk about it. And one night, when you called him and ripped into him over voicemail, Bucky  _throttled_  his cellphone at Tony’s head in the common room without hesitation – the  _whole team_  was subjected to listen to you scream about how  _Bucky had broken your heart_  on speaker.

And the end, about telling Tony to fuck off?

Bucky said you were smart. Tony didn’t think you were  _that_  smart.

And yet, here Tony is, face deadset in a complete panic as you stroll through the door, entering the room reserved for the medical internship interviews.

_You_.

The panel, seated behind a large desk across the room, is made up of Tony and Bruce and Rhodey – behind them, Happy watches and Pepper paces back and forth with a clipboard, scribbling notes as the the three watch on and listen to the candidates. 

You stride further into the room.

Tony’s hand slaps Bruce’s leg. His eyes are wide. Bruce blinks, brows knotted in confusion as he mouths ‘ _what_?’ and Tony makes a pained noise from deep inside his chest.  


You were buzzed up the top floor, escorted by security, and all of it done while flying under the radar.  _Talk about a power rush._

When the other applicant in front of you finishes, the door swings open and you’re motioned inside. The receptionist smiles, wishing you luck.

“Thanks, I’m going to need it,” you smile.

And then you promptly storm through the doors.

_ Tony wants to die. _

He didn’t think –

You flash this smile, _this shit eating grin,_  and raise a hand. You wave at Happy in the corner, a flutter of your fingers, laughing slightly as you joke _: “Large cappucino with almond milk, right?”_  and immediately the air in the room is floored into something very different. You tone is dipped with a biting venom.

The color in Happy’s face drains. Tony’s eyes blink fast between the two of you – he points, brows set in an odd mixture between annoyance and impressment.

“This is –”

“A  _surprise_?” you snip, cocking your head to the side, “ _Funny_ , I thought with all the  _surveillance_ you were gathering on me, you’d have me all figured out.”

“Uh,” Tony starts, finger raised, “ _Rude_.”

Your heels click hard and fast against the tile floor and beside him, Bruce stiffens visibly. Your resume and cover letter hit the desk, eyes dead set in anger. Tony is ready for a  _punch_  to be landed, but instead, you lean on the desk and spit the words out.

“I’m about to get _more than rude_ , Stark.”

“I’m sorry,  _what the hell is going on?_ ” it’s Pepper, brows screwed in confusion as she blinks around the room. Everyone, including Bruce, clearly knows who you are.

“Oh,  _sorry_ , was the  _stalking_ not a group activity?”

You lean back, arms crossed, as Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Barnes’ girl.”

Pepper’s face falls. “Oh no.”

“Yeah, ‘ _oh no’_  is right, Pep,” Tony groans, rubbing his face. He turns to you, “Why are you  _here_?”

“Better than me knocking on  _Peter Parker’s_ door, isn’t it?”

The air in the room goes cold.

All of the faces in the room snap to you, eyes riddled with fear. Clearly, Bucky hadn’t mentioned you’d met the kid. You didn’t know who Parker was in this big mess of things, but you knew he wasn’t doing an internship. Not if he knew Bucky. Not if knew the Winter Soldier.

You’d clearly struck an artery.

You notice Tony swallow, you see Rhodey begin to drum his fingers and look more distressed than before. Bruce, between them, is just wide eyed.

“How the  _hell_  do you know who Peter is?” Tony seethes.

“You need to be careful,” you say, your tone softer, “He’s a  _kid,_ Stark. I tracked the IP he was using in forty-five minutes. If I was someone else… Someone worse, he –”

Your words die in your throat and you throw your hands. Tony notices how your words go gentle, how you hint at the reason you didn’t go knocking on his door. A lull of silence washes over the room.

Pepper blinks at Tony. Her voice cracks as he raises it in shock. Silence broken.

“You had  _Peter_  stalk her?!”

The room is up in a chatter again, Tony yelling about how  _it’s not technically stalking_ , Rhodey yelling about how  _Tony, Jesus, you need a permit for that shit,_ and Happy yelling at  _you_ asking  _how you even got into the Tower_. Bruce is sharing a worried look with Pepper, hands pulled up in a shrug.

_“Fine!”_  Tony snaps, silencing the room, “ _Fine_. I was wrong for having her watched – can you.. Pepper,  _don’t look at me like that_ , can you  _blame_  me? She knows about Mr. Electroshock-Therapy downstairs. She knows  _who_ he is.”

You wince visibly at the nickname. Bruce sees it.

“So it wasn’t him,” you say slowly, “You told him not to see me.”

“Of course it  _wasn’t_  him,” Tony snaps, standing and starting to pace, “He’s been an  _emotional wreck_ and clearly can’t handle a  _break up_  well and frankly, I’m  _sick_  of it. Even  _Cap_ can’t get him out of his  _mopey_ little  _mood_ – but that’s not the point. You are a  _civilian_  and  _you know too much._ ”

He crossed the room in a blink, anger flaring up on his face. His finger is in your face.

You speak slow.

“Then hire me.”

Tony blinks. A pause. His finger falls.

_ “I’m sorry?” _

“I’m an NYU grad student currently writing her thesis on militarized integrated biomedical technology,” you motion to the resume on the desk, “I have recommendations from four professors in my department, each detailing what would make me an applicable and appropriate member of your team. My experiences range from two large undergrad research studies to two seperate internships at the NYU Langone Medical Center in their biomedical wing.”

The room is quiet.

“You hire me, you can watch me,” you say, hands clasped, “And you stay away from Bucky and I.”

“All of this,” Bruce speaks up, “For Barnes?”

You don’t miss a beat.

“He’s worth it.”

Rhodey is impressed.

Tony settles back on his heels, arms crossed as he runs his tongue across his teeth.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Tony sighs.

A voice from overhead sings to life and you jump in slight surprise. The A.I.’s voice lilts brightly, and you note the way Tony’s tone softens. “Where’s Barnes?”

_ “Sergeant Barnes is currently sparring with Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark. If I may, he’s in quite the mood today.” _

Tony makes a face, raising his eyebrows at you as if to say, ‘ _See?’._

_ “Would you like me to patch your through, Mr. Stark?” _

“Just tell him his girlfriend is here, F.R.I.D.A.Y. – Tell him to hussle his tin-can ass up to the meeting room.”

Immediately, your face gets hot – you can feel the slight nervousness creep up your neck and you fiddle with your fingers. Tony watches, eyes shining slightly at the reaction. It’s clear you’re into Barnes – Tony can’t figure out why, but young love is something special.

Well, it’s not really young love.

Bucky is, like, a  _hundred_  years old.

Literally.

“I’m  _not_ – we’re  _technically_ not… –  _titles_ …,” you stammer, hands waving as you screw your eyes shut, “I’m not his  _girlfriend_.”

“Whatever you say,  _doll_ ,” Tony mutters, hand clapping your shoulder. He moves, leaning on the desk and crossing his arms again, “So, when can you start? I’m assuming you’ll quite the coffee shop gig.”

“…  _Start?”_

“Yeah,” Tony nods, _“You’re hired.”_

* * *

Bucky has Steve in a headlock, pinning him to the floor when the announcement chimes through.

_ “Sergeant Barnes, Mr. Stark is requesting you on the 80th floor in the conference room. I was told to tell you ‘your girlfriend is here’.” _

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice cuts through the heavy bass of the rock music playing overhead. Sam, from his spot outside the boxing ring, shouts in surprise. It’s muffled by the  _protein bar_  he’s shoving  _half-way_ down his  _throat_. The Falcon is beaming with excitement as he screams to break up the spar – he throws his wrapper, the foil fluttering to the mat.

Both supersoliders both pause, Steve’s eyes going wide as Bucky’s arm goes slack. The Winter Soldier’s chest is heaving – he swallows, blinking at Sam. A metal finger points upward.

“What did that thing just say?”

“Your  _girlfriend_ is here,” Sam laughs, cooing slightly, “I told you, man, I  _told_ you she wouldn’t just drop you –”

Ever the hype man.

“The top floor conference room?” Steve huffs, wiping the sweat off his brow, “What is she doing up  _there_?”

Bucky is sweating. More so than before – his shirt is drenched, dark pools of sweat dipping below his collar. He groans, hands moving to tug his hair into a sloppy bun as he stands – he snags the towel off Sam’s shoulder as he nearly falls out of the ring. Nervousness strikes him in the chest.

“Dunno, man,” Sam shrugs, “But she’s here.”

“I  _know_ ,” Bucky groans, “And I’m disgusting.”

“Girls are into that  _post-workout_  look,” says Sam, leaning against the boxing ring. Silence sweeps the room, “ _What?_ ”

Steve shoots him a questioning look. Bucky does too. Sam raises his hands in defense.

“It’s  _sexy_ ,” Falcon shrugs, “Just roll with it. Play it cool.”

“She’s probably here to tell me to  _fuck off_  in person,” Bucky mumbles, beginning to pace slightly.

Steve, beside him, watches with interest – he’s seen Bucky fawn over girls. Plenty, really, but this was different from all those others. To see his friend so beat up over not being able to see you? Steve had to wonder what the deal was.

Bucky tried to explain that you made him feel  _real_.

Steve didn’t really get it, but he figured maybe after all the trauma Bucky’d been through, feeling real was what he needed. To Steve, Bucky was his friend – to Sam, he was the enemy-turned-friend.

To you? He was  _Bucky_. Just  _Bucky_. No previous opinions. He was entirely new and entirely  _broken_. And you still cared about him.

Buck cared about you, too. Sam had to admit it was kind of cute.

Until the whole Romeo and Juliet bullshit started and then the Tower had a moody, heartbroken supersoldier moping around.

He wasn’t  _moping_. He was…  _angry_. Controlling and limiting his interactions was better than blowing up on everyone.

Bucky Barnes had never liked authority, apparently. Steve told him that. It reaffirmed how he felt about Tony.

_“Sergeant Barnes,”_  F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes in again, _“I was told to tell you to ‘hussle your tin-can ass’ to the conference by Mr. Stark. I had omitted that from my previous announcement out of respect, but have been told to remind you by Mr. Stark. Please make your way upstairs; your girlfriend is expecting you.”_

“Yeah,” Bucky grumbles, “I got it.”

_ “Thank you, Sergeant Barnes, I will inform your girlfriend you are on your way.” _

“She’s not even my –” Bucky throws his hands, looking to Sam and Steve for a little help here. They both shoot him a look, spurring him to the elevator. “ _Fine_. But if I come back down with a black-eye…”

“Oh, yeah,  _bullshit_ ,” Sam laughs, “Says the Russian assassin supersoldier.”

“You think  _she_ can land a punch?” Steve muses, impressed.

Bucky flips them both off from the elevator.

* * *

“There he is!” Tony grins.

You shuffle, fingers curled around your resume Bruce had handed back to you. From your spot in the room, you know you’re being watched. You try to control the way your hardened expression melts away when you see him, but it’s hard. It’s  _really_  hard.

He’s in sweats and a t-shirt, all of which are drenched with sweat. His hands are tucked into his pockets and he seems to shrink under your gaze – Bruce thinks it’s interesting, the way you can make him, a literal  _weapon_ , look so unintimidating.

Bucky is fighting the urge to run. You look…  _sexy_. He’s never seen you in  _heels_ like that, let alone something so low-cut. The  _blazer_ , too – bright red and fitted – makes things even more intimidating. You look like you came ready to rip someone apart.

Bucky’s a little worried that person is him.

“Buck-o,” Tony claps Bucky on the metal of his shoulder. You note the way the billionaire winces, “Meet the newest member of the biomedical division here at Stark Industries! I’m assuming you two already  _know_ one another…”

You exhale, laughing slightly. Bucky blinks.

“Newest member…?”

“I hired her,” Stark interjects, watching Bucky start towards you. His dress shoes glint in the light as he matches Bucky’s strides, “After she tracked Happy, ID’d my surveillance and flew under our noses into the Tower, all to confront me about it.”

A pause.

“All because she wanted to take  _you_ out another  _date_ , Summer Soldier. How  _romantic_ is that?”

Bucky’s face is dead set in admiration, his earlier mood melting away. You note the way his brows quirk at the word ‘ _romantic’_ and it tugs the corners of your lips upward. The distance between you closes, but still a tentative gap separates you both. The supersoldier seems to want to close it further, and you partly wish he would in front of half his colleagues.

He looks like hell, jaw rimmed with a fuller beard than usual – his hair is tucked away from his face, and you spy the dark circles under his eyes. No doubt his nightmares haven’t been any better thanks to all this.

After a moment, Bucky speaks. His voice is hoarse.

“You still wanna… ?” a swallow, “You still wanna go out again?”

You can’t help the smile that brightens your face. Bucky’s heart sings.

“Duh. I said I’d pay.”

Bucky grins. Flat out. It’s big and happy.

It’s the first time Pepper has seen it. Rhodey and Bruce, too.

Tony thinks maybe it will end just fine.


	16. wet socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky knocks on your window, soaked and looking to make amends. More kissing happens. Marissa interrupts.

Bucky knocks on your window that night.  


His gear is heavy, weighed down the rain. The leather smells wet and with each step higher onto your fire escape, Bucky can feel his socks slosh in his boots.

_ Nothin’ worse than wet socks, huh, Buck – _

Memories associated with the discomfort fly to the front of his brain. Teeth chattering in the trenches. The Battle of the Bulge hadn’t been kind to the Howling Commandos. Bucky remembers that overcoat, that blue one he had, being warm – but in the dead of a wet, and freezing German winter? Nothing was warm.

Wet socks.

They were enough of an excuse to knock on your window, to cause you to stir from the stacks of paper littering your bed. You’re a sight for sore eyes, really, in that sweatshirt – your legs poke out, fuzzy socks decorating your feet. They’re pink. And polka-dotted. You glow in the light of your laptop screen, blue and warm. The mug of tea in your hands sloshes as you jump when he knocks and your eyes snap to the window.

Masked, decked in his Winter Soldier tactical gear, Bucky feels a little  _weird_ waving – but he does anyways. Metal finger glint in the warm glow of your string lights through the window.

You laugh, slipping out of bed and to the window. He watches you bend and watches your sweatshirt sway and pool as you haul the glass open.

“A little wet there, Soldier?” you muse. His hair is soaked, clinging to his forehead and mask – a stray bead of rain rolls off his chin. “Let me get you a  _towel_ –”

Bucky grins under his mask, and moves to step through the window. The second his boot meets the hardwood, though, he  _slips_ only to catches himself on the sill with a loud  _thud_. Gloved hands dig into the wood there as you clap your own hand over your mouth to muffle a bark of laughter.

Blue eyes shoot you a  _look_ , brows quirking upwards and you muffle another laugh. He’s supposed to be this  _intimidating_ ,  _terrifying killer_. A trained assassin and yet… Here he is, slipping across the floor and wheezing out embarrassed laughter from behind his mask.

He’s adorable. You feel your chest bloom a bit, happiness settling there.

You hand him a stray bath towel – it’s grey – and watch him towel himself off quickly. He throws it across his hair, leaving a tangled mess of brown hair in its wake. He muscles the mask from his jaw, revealing a light grin.

You think he must have had every girl in Brooklyn wrapped around his thumb with a smile like that.

You try to ignore the way his leather jacket clings to his waist or the way his arms bow and flex as he dries himself off. The rain has made everything cling and it’s…  _well_ , he’s just as much of a _sight for sore eyes_  as you are to him.

“Rainy night?” you ask, tugging the curtains shut as Bucky unceremoniously tugs his boots off, hopping halfway across the room as he does so. He lands on your bed, exhaling softly before tipping his boot.

You make a disgusted face as the puddle empties onto the towel on the floor.

“Very rainy,” he mumbles, muscling his other boot off and offering a slow smile. His hair is starting to curl a bit, going wavy from the humidity. “I’m done for the night. Sick of the wet socks.”

“I have  _extra_ socks,” You laugh, stepping around the towel and hopping down on the bed beside him. The mattress springs a bit and you bounce; tugging your knees up, you lean against him a bit. The cool metal of his arm startles goosebumps along your shins and knees. Bucky notices. “They’re  _fuzzy_.”

You drape a leg across his damp lap, showing off the digs on your feet.

It’s an offer.

It’s an  _innocent_ movement. It’s not meant to be seductive. You wiggle your toes.

Bucky, though, is frozen in place – he’s seen your legs before,  _sure_ , but never with you half-naked, draped across his lap. I mean –  _aside from that one time he was bleeding all over your floor_. This is  _different_. 

This is post-date, post-kiss.

He blinks down at your socks, his own face going a bit pink before he stammers his way through a response.

“They’re, uh… They’re nice.”

You notice his apparent flush.

“Thanks.”

Bucky’s hands float for a moment, eyes scaling up your leg before his fingertips touch the curve of your kneecap. It’s a tentative movement. His other hand, cool and smooth, lands on your shin. You swallow. His thumb ghosts the curve of your knee. His eyes are watching; he sees the way more goosebump rise to the mild touch.

Something hot and tempting stirs in your stomach; you try your best to ignore how deliciously it curls and winds in your head.

He starts speaking, slowly at first, but you’re more focused on the way his hand dances against the bare skin of your knee.

“I… I wanted to make sure you weren’t mad at me,” he says, “Tony kept saying you’d be safer away from me.”

You’re not really paying attention. Your mind is trying to work out why his touch leaves a burning trail as he climbs a bit higher. His fingers move against your thigh. You chew your lip.

Bucky fiddles when he’s nervous. But this isn’t fiddling.

He wants to  _touch_ you.

“I’m not mad at you.”

You say it, eyes glued to the way his hands skim up the planes of your thigh. Bucky’s watching you, eyes dead-set on the way your mouth parts when his fingertips press into the muscle there. It’s sinful, but his heart is settled on you.

“You’re not.”

It’s soft. Not a question, really.

His own eyes bounce down to your mouth. His gaze romans across your lips for a second. It’s the only thing you really needed; a sign that he was thinking about the same thing. You notice the way he leans, the way he shifts his weight to face you as his hand tightens it’s hold higher onto your thigh. You lean on your hands, moving your weight forward.

You watch his mouth as he speaks.

“You would be safer if I stayed away, though.”

It’s not a lie. Bucky knows it. You know it. But right now?

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

Your hand moves, pushing aside a pile of notes before he moves close.

“Really?”

His eyes roam. He leans.

“Really.”

You meet him halfway, fingers curling into his wet curls as his lips melt against yours. He settles his body between your legs, hand tightening its grip on your thigh as his left ghosts along your other ankle. You’re grinning against his mouth, happily falling against the pillows as Bucky takes charge.

The kiss itself is  _feverish_ – it’s week apart, weeks of missing one another.

You aren’t complaining.

Bucky isn’t either.

His chest presses to yours and your hands drift, tugging at the wet leather that clings to him – he’s quick to meet your fingers, fiddling with the clasps as he nearly rips the vest off himself.

Bucky’s head feels hazy – this is a dream. It has to be. He had hardly believed you were real this morning when you showed up in that outfit, looking ready to murder someone. Seeing you again after weeks apart felt better than he wanted to admit. He’d missed you.

_ It shows. _

He leans back on his knees, tugging the vest up and away and ignoring the hammering of his heart as your fingers scale the planes of his abdomen. The kiss reignites, your legs hitching up over his waist to tug him back closer.

Bucky laughs – mostly at how  _wonderful_ a dream this is. It’s deep and dark, against your mouth.

You bite back a moan.

He  _notices_. Buck pulls away, hair wild and lips red.

His words are quiet. “I’m so glad you’re not pissed.”

Bucky says it, kisses dipping along your jaw, along the curve of your throat. You swallow, voice wispy and light, head fluttering and hazy. You’re trying to keep yourself together, to not lose yourself completely in his roaming touches and kisses and soft words. It’s hard.

“How  _could_ I be?”

Your laugh is a hiccup; Bucky’s own rocks your chest.

“I never called you back.”

“But you’re  _here now_ ,” you tug his hair a bit, dragging his lips back to yours as you happily settle on curling your arms around his neck.

You both settle there, kissing through half-smiles and pressed bodies. Bucky’s hands dip along your legs, pressing your hips to his own. He’s content staying just like this  _forever_. He feels like he  _belongs_  in this moment, rooted and secure.

Until the door to your room swings open.

It’s Marissa. And her eyes are trained on the glinting  _metal arm_ with a red star. And who that arm is attached to. And who it’s touching.

She drops the bag of popcorn in her hands.

Kernels fly everywhere.

_ “Anti-Avengers propaganda, my ass!” _


	17. hard re-write

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets another sidekick. Nat does some digging... H.Y.D.R.A. really didn't want anyone touching their asset.

“You’re  _screwing_ one of the Avengers.” **  
**

“I mean,  _technically_ we weren’t –”

“No,  _nope_ ,” Marissa cuts you off, “That was two pairs of pants  _away_ from  _screwing_.”

“ _One pair_ ,” you correct, cornering her in the kitchen, “And you can’t say a  _word_.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Marissa chides, “Like it would  _matter_ – he’s a superhero! He’s, like,  _unstoppable_.”

“I’m not  _unstoppable_ ,” it’s Bucky, rounding the corner. He’s muscling on his boots, jumping slightly to kick them on, “I am very stoppable.”

“No one asked you,  _can-opener!”_  Marissa winds up, throwing a handful of popcorn at him. It bounces off the leather vest he’d tugged back on after Marissa had barged in, “Where the  _hell_ did you even  _find_ him?”

“I didn’t  _find_ him anywhere –”

Bucky shrugs. “Coffee shop.”

You shoot him a look.

_ Seriously? _

He quirks a brow.

_ What? _

Marissa watches the exchange, hands tossed in exasperation. She lobs her popcorn bag into the trash, kicking the can before she starts to pace. “This is so not something we discussed in our _roommate contract_  –”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think I’d be  _romantically involved with the Winter Soldier_ when we signed our  _lease_ , Marissa!” you quip, moving across the room to try and calm her down.

Marissa shoots Bucky a look. The man stiffens. “Has he even  _seen_  the  _slideshow?!_ You  _slandered_ half the Avengers to make a point –”

“You made a slideshow?” Bucky’s brows are raised and he leans against the kitchen doorway.

You groan. “I had to make a point, Buck –  _listen_ , the slideshow is  _irrelevant_.”

“He should see the slideshow,” Marissa offers between beats, “It’s  _funny_.”

“Is it?”

Marissa shrugs, waving her hands in a so-so motion. It satisfies Bucky. He makes a mental note to ask to see it later.

“Okay,  _reel it back in,_  both of you,” you snap, hands pushing through your hair, “Marissa, I went to the Tower to confront Stark about watching me.”

“ _Watching_ you?”

“He was having people follow me,” now it’s your turn to pace, “All because I  _knew_ about Bucky’s little hobby.”

Bucky snorts softly. “Definitely  _not_ a hobby.”

You shoot him a look. Bucky raises both his hands in defense. Marissa blinks.

“Jesus,” she mumbles, “Wait, I thought he was  _ghosting_ you? Y’know, the whole  _break-up blues?”_

“I  _was_ ,” Bucky moves deeper into the kitchen, his hand touching your waist briefly as he shuffles behind you. He settles his weight in a kitchen chair. “Stark made the point that I’m  _dangerous_  and staying away from her was the right thing to do.”

His eyes go a little sad when he says it. You notice.

“And so you rolled up to Stark Tower to get your super-boyfriend back from Iron Man.”

You blink at Marissa. Her arms are crossed.

“It sounds  _stupid_ when you say it like that.”

Bucky hums. “Yeah, not the best.”

“To start, this is, like, the  _worst_  rendition of Romeo and Juliet ever,” Marissa taps her fingers, moving onto her second point and her second digit, “Secondly, does this mean  _I’m_  going to be watched too?”

Silence sweeps the room and you share a look with Bucky. He winces.

“Not if Stark doesn’t know,” he says finally, standing to full height and closing the gap between him and Marissa, “And not if you understand what will happen if you talk about this.”

You notice the way his arm flexes. The plates shift, whirring quietly.

Seeing Bucky be even remotely threatening feels out of place and weird and it makes you laugh a little. He looks so big in the small kitchenette. Marissa, though, doesn’t seem bothered.

She deadpans. “Okay,  _tin-foil,_  I get it.”

Bucky blinks back at you and you sigh, shrugging softly.

His phone, then, in his back pocket, blips loudly. Six times.

Muscling it out, you notice it’s no longer that beat up old Nokia.

“New phone?” you ask, laughing slightly as he types in his passcode.

“Oh,” a pause, moving it in his hands, “Yeah. I threw my other one at Stark’s head.”

Marissa snorts, clamping a hand over her mouth.

Bucky squints at the screen, lips moving slowly as he reads the series of texts lighting up his screen. You notice the name at the top reads Steve. He scrolls, all before rolling his eyes and groaning slightly.

“I have to go,” he says, “Turns out Nat dug up some more H.Y.D.R.A. files on me.”

“Nat?” you ask, head tilting, “Have I met her?”

“Doubt it,” he mumbles, “You’d remember.”

A little bit like a loyal dog, he retreats, dipping to kiss your cheek as he scoops his mask off the kitchen table. His stubble tickles and you screw your eyes shut at the gesture. Bucky watches you for a moment after, admiring how your nose wrinkles and your smile blooms.

“I’ll text you,” he says, waving his phone slightly.

You laugh.

Marissa sizes him up.

“Looks like you’ve got two sidekicks now, Buck-o.”

“My beautiful assistants,” he chides through his mask, walking backwards down the hall before moving to duck out your window, “What would I do without you both?”

“Probably  _die_ ,” you quip, shrugging.

Marissa hums in agreement.

Bucky laughs.

* * *

Being apart of a team is something Bucky likes, though being ordered around  _isn’t_. So when he enters the main doors of the tower and F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes to life overhead, informing him of an order to report to forensics, he feels annoyance bite at his nerves. It’s clearly an order from Stark. The nickname  _Summer Soldier_  gives that away.

Sure enough, when he exits the lift on the basement level, majority of the team is gathered. Tony is pacing slightly, peaking over Nat’s shoulder every now and again. Bucky offers a slight smile to Bruce. The Hulks smiles back.

Bucky likes Bruce. He listens. He’s nice. He feels better after his afternoon sessions with Bruce.

“How’s your girl?” Steve asks when Bucky approaches the main HUB. “Mad?”

“No,” Bucky says, “Not mad. Not at all.”

“Oh really?” comes the distracted voice of Natasha Romanov, muffled behind the manilla folder in her hands. “ _I’d_ be mad. Mostly at Stark. But, from what I heard, she was a force to be reckoned with during her interview.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Tony bites, “I was only looking out for –”

“For  _her_ ,” Bucky snips, brows raised in challenge, “I’m aware.”

“It seems like she’ll be able to look out for herself,” Bruce cuts in, hands in his pockets as he toes the leg of the table, “I read her resume and cover letter and did a little digging. She’s good. Really good. Two spots from Valedictorian  _good_.”

That brings a smile to Buck’s face. Pride. Then he sees the documents on the table. His face falls.

Beside Steve, Nat is perusing a pile of printed documents. They’ve got CONFIDENTIAL stamped all over them and the once S.H.I.E.L.D. logo is emblazoned on the front. Everyone knows now that H.Y.D.R.A. was the threat bubbling under the surface. Bucky was their tool of choice. But he doesn’t remember. Thankfully, the back-up drive of Armin Zola’s mind-hive does.

“I don’t doubt it,” Bucky hums, mind drifting away from you in five inch heels and a red blazer. He sobers up and crosses his arms, “What did you find?”

The mood shifts.

Nat drops the folder, sighing softly before planting her hands on the desk in front of them. The wall of monitors above them blink to life as she taps the keyboard, entering in her ID code. She’s quick to jump through files, to worm her way into the databank that once was Zola’s brain.

There’s one folder she hovers over for a second. It’s in Russian. Bucky’s eyes flick over it.

_ BIOLOGICAL READ-OUTS OF WINTER SOLDIER. _

“You might want to sit down, Buck.”

Steve’s eyes are soft. Nat’s aren’t. He doesn’t sit down.

The schematics are queued up.

“Jesus.”

Files litter the screen, each in Russian, each depicting the schematics and readouts of his arm. He’s seen these before, it’s nothing new. The images of him, young and unconscious, on an operating table are new, though. Beside him, Steve shifts. Blue eyes meet his. The brevity of the connection speaks to their friendship. Bucky’s hand claps Cap’s shoulder.

_ It’s not your fault. _

“I’ve seen this before,” Bucky croaks, “All of this.”

“Yeah, well,” Nat clicks a level deeper, into a file reading  _FAIL SAFES AND ANTI-TAMPER._

Bucky’s stomach drops.

And do does everyone’s in the room.

“How about this?”

It’s a timer. The clock is winding, number fleeting through.

“That thing – your arm, sorry – is rigged to detonate,” Nat continues, fingers scaling through the Russian files in front of her, “You’ve been nearly 4 months without being iced, Bucky. Your arm is reset every time you’re wiped.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. He’s rooted to the ground.

“Why?” Steve asks. It’s cold.

“H.Y.D.R.A. didn’t want anyone else getting ahold of their asset.”

“Then we ice him,” says Tony, hands gesturing, “Easy enough. A quick ice, a quick wipe. We hit the reset button.”

Bucky winces. Thinking about it makes his chest compact, makes his heart spur into a kick-up. Fear makes his fingers shake. He snarls, chewing the inside of his lip. He remembers screams –  _his_ screams. Fear. They echo in his head as men muscle him into that chair.

_ Please – Please, god, no! Please – Please don’t! _

“We can’t,” Bruce sets up, voice hard, “That’s ridiculous, Tony. After all the progress we’ve made, all the progress Bucky has made –”

“I think we’re forgetting he’s a  _weapon_ ,” Tony snaps, “A weapon that’s killed over two dozen people. My parents  _included_.”

“For christ’s sake, Tony,” Steve’s face is warped in disgust, “Listen to yourself.”

Silence sweeps the room.

He hasn’t felt this way in a while. His face is pale, hands jumping slightly as he wrings them together. Bucky swears it’s the worst feeling – impending panic looming over him. It’s like drowning in your own head.

Maybe Tony is right.

Bucky croaks. “What other option do we have?”

Nat moves, dropping the manilla folder in her hands onto the table.

The top reads  _HANDLER’S INSTRUCTIONS._

“We do a hard re-wire.”


	18. up and down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prep. Bucky is nervous. You're terrified. Steve is both.

Bruce Banner had come to admire Bucky Barnes.  


The man with the gunmetal arm has grown.

His weekly sessions typically start slow; it’s apparent Bucky doesn’t want to drag himself to the dark part of his mind that he’s willingly holed away. But, with gentle coaxing, memories start to ebb and flow into the conversation. Someday’s there are bad memories, like the night he murdered Tony Stark’s parents in cold blood.

Bucky had  _sobbed_ then, fell apart on the sofa and sobbed.

Guilt is his vice. It weighs him down. Even when he remembers the good -- his mother, his sisters, boxing championships and apple pie. The guilt is there, the fear of becoming that other half that lurks in the shadows of his circuiting.

The Russians were thorough… H.Y.D.R.A. was ruthless.

The Soviets taught him how to kill. Hell, he taught Natasha how to kill. Bucky remembers the Red Room, he remembers bits and pieces. Ballerinas. Pretty young girls who could kill you as they bat their lashes.

(He remembers Natasha, but she’s young and baby-faced and full of anger. The lines blur. She changes her hair so often there’s no comparison now. Bruce helped him piece that together.)

H.Y.D.R.A though? H.Y.D.R.A. made Bucky’s life hell. It’s apparent from the spilling waterfall of paperwork and files and mission logs and disciplinary actions flowing from the table to the floor in the lounge.

(Bruce takes interest in one, before quickly discarding it among the mess. A disciplinary note -- the Winter Soldier had become irate, babbling in Romanian about his Mama and sarmale and  _Rebecca, where is Rebecca? Where is my sister?_ and he screams about going home,  _please let me go home_ , and tears at his arm and fights.

They drug him. They beat him. They wipe him. The withdrawals make him weak and that’s the punishment. By the time he feels it, the ache and fever, he doesn’t even know what he’s done. Fear makes him  _compliant_.)

Bruce spends half the night with Tony, sifting through the translated files Natasha had managed to purge from Zola’s encrypted databank. A lot of it is spent in exasperation.

“So,” Bruce says slowly, “To recap.”

He plucks a folder from the table, worrying his brow with his left hand as he skims the translation. 

“The arm has an anti-tamper device installed within,” Bruce blinks at Tony, who reclines slightly in his chair and nods, “In order to access any maintenance rewiring, we need access through plating -- it looks like it’s only possible to re-wire when he’s triggered?”

“No doubt a system boot up,” Tony hums, “It seems like it operates on voice recognition, so say the words and the arm turns on -- and it also turns him into a crazy, violent, murdering  _psychopath_.”

Tony tosses the manilla folder with  _SCHEMATICS_  printed along the top. Inside are diagrams depicting nerve paths and various locations used for ‘proper sedation’. Bruce can feel the color drain in his face. Tony, though, tuts on.

“Looks like they would hop him up on a smorgasbord of drugs -- amphetamines, benzos, antipsychotics,” Tony says, pointing at the sub-section in the file, “Good ol’ Buck was taking a trip when they did maintenance -- and even still they needed to work fast. He metabolizes it all so quick.”

“Just like Cap?”

“Just like Cap.”

Bruce sighs, removing his glasses and rubbing his face.

“So we’re going to have to flip the switch...” Bruce mumbles, “Flip the switch, sedate him to all hell, and hope he doesn’t wake up while we dismantle his entire left arm.”

Tony exhales. His eyes are tired.

“Looks like it.”

“And if he wakes up?”

“You read the handbook,” Tony offers, “ _Thou shalt not destroy H.Y.D.R.A. property.”_

Great.

* * *

 

_ Great. _

You weren’t an early bird. Maybe once upon a time you were, in the beginning of your college career when you were excited and fresh-faced. Back then, pulling yourself from bed before 7am would have been fine. But this morning? You’d done more than just flounder a bit at your phone buzzing loudly by your head.

Bucky’s text woke you up.

Your footfalls are quick as you vault yourself against the receptionist desk in the lobby of Stark Tower. The woman seems to jump slightly, only before you quickly spill out that you’re here for your first day of the Stark Internship. It’s a lie. You’re here because your boyfriend’s left arm is rigged to blow.

_ Not the biceps! _

You’d joke, you really would, if you didn’t feel like crying.

She gives you a name tag and an ID passcode.

She sends you on your way.

The elevator is slow. Too slow. Everything is too slow. You fiddle with the hem of your sweater, tap your toes in your black slip ons. Your fingers fly to your phone, unlocking it and staring at the text you’d received around 5am.

It’s from Bucky.

> _ So my arm is going to explode in about 5 hours. _

Nothing else. That was it.

You knew Bucky was bad at texting but this? This was the worst. The worst he’d ever done.

You’d called him  _six_ times while you pulled on your clothes and rushed out the door. Someone finally picked up. It was Steve, a man you’d never met but heard plenty about in passing from Bucky and from the news. Captain America seemed rather tense on the phone himself, reassuring you everything was fine, that Buck was fine, and that he’d call you with any updates.

He’d been in the elevator. You heard that AI announce the floor number over the phone before he hung up.

So, you decided not to wait on the sidelines.

The elevator slows and the AI, F.R.I.D.A.Y., announces softly,  _“Floor 58, Maximum Security Holding Area.”_

But the doors don’t open.

You blink, brushing your card against the scanner by the floor numbers before a loud declination hums through the lift.

_“Sorry,”_  the voice says, “ _You do not possess the adequate security clearances to enter this area.”_

Your heart sinks, worry and anxiety building quickly in your stomach as you lurch a bit, face hot with fear.

“Oh, come on,” you whine, kneading your brow as you pace a little, “I  _need_ to get on this floor--”

The doors peel open, and you come face to face with Captain America’s pecs.

Steve’s face pales.

He  _knows_ it’s you -- the nametag isn’t the only dead give away. Bucky had told him everything about you. Hair, eyes, the way your nose wrinkles when you’re annoyed. Of course Bucky hadn’t meant to -- it was out of frustration and anger and mild heartbreak (okay, maybe not mild) thanks to Tony’s words and poisonous points. Bucky had grunted out that you were beautiful and lovely and smart and kind, punch after punch after punch into the bag on the training level.

By the end of it, he didn’t feel better. He just missed you more. And his fists are bruised.

Your voice is heavy with worry. Steve hears it. “Is he okay?”

Steve is about to respond when he hears Sam round the corner, shouting to hold the elevator door, damn it, before freezing in the hallway as you poke around Cap. Sam spots your nametag. The Falcon throws his hands in the air, spinning slightly.

“The  _hell_ is she doing here?” Sam chatters, “Starks gunna flip. Honestly, as if this day couldn’t get any worse --”

Sure enough, Tony Stark and Bruce Banner round the corner after Sam. They’re both locked in conversation, Bruce’s hands are full of files. It’s not until they nearly collide with a pacing Sam that they see you in the elevator.

Tony’s eyes widen slightly at you, clutching your backpack and looking like a deer in headlights. You look like wreck -- your hair is a mess and your eyes are tired. You’d clearly thrown on what you could, and your sweater swallows you up.

The billionaire’s gaze bounces back to Cap, then to Sam, and then back to you. Finally, he speaks.

“How the hell do you keep getting places you shouldn’t?”

The group moves forward, ushering you further into the elevator. Cap’s hand is heavy on your shoulder as you wring your hands. Bruce stands beside you and Tony speaks quickly to the AI. Your eyes dart along the titles of the few files in his arms --  _HANDLER’S PROCEDURES, MAINTENANCE PROCEDURES, ANTI-TAMPER MECHANISMS_. All of it with the letterhead stamped on the bottom:

_ WINTER SOLDIER. _

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. take us to the Panic Room. Tell Romanov to meet us there once Barnes is done being prepped,” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, “And get his girlfriend out of here.”

You’re too busy locked in a mild panic to respond. Bruce catches your eyes, noting the way the color in your face has drained substantially. Steve’s grip tightens on your shoulder.

Tony waits.

“Did you hear me?” he begins, turning slightly, “I said --”

His face falls when he notes the palpable fear written across your face.

Your voice is soft.

Sam winces.

“... Is Bucky okay?”

Tony swallows, blanching a bit as he’s punched in the gut with the realization about how much you do care about that moody supersoldier. He’s reminded of himself worrying over Pepper. He knows the feeling plastered all over your face.

Guilt bites at Tony’s cheeks, face softening as he shares a nervous glance with Bruce. The good doctor speaks.

“He’s going to be fine. He’s being secured in holding to prepare for the procedure,” Bruce explains as you burn a hole in the floor, “We’re going to need to access the maintenance protocols, so he’s not going to feel like himself for a little while. He’s going to be sedated though, that way he won’t feel anything while we remove the improvised explosive device that’s been integrated into a portion of his forearm.”

Steve feels you relax, his hand moving to rub your shoulder. Bruce is good at explaining. He’s good at staying calm when it matters. Steve’s thankful for it.

“He was asking for you earlier,” Steve says, sparing a look at Tony, “I’m sure he’d love to see you before he was sedated.”

You nod, swallowing.

You know they’re watching you, so you stay quiet and you wring your sleeves and you hold your breath. The doors swing open, finally, and you exit the lift surrounded by a portion of the Avengers as if it’s nothing -- you’re too busy thinking about  _HANDLER’S INSTRUCTIONS,_  too busy thinking about sedation and Bucky not being himself.

You didn’t know what that meant.

You were about to find out.

* * *

 

Bucky Barnes was in the midst of his second panic attack that morning.

Natasha wasn’t helping.

He’s strapped down, secured in that same ridiculous holding cell Helmut Zemo had cornered him in months ago. It’s not comfortable. Nothing about it is. Bucky tightens his fists, inhaling sharply through his nose as he tries to calm himself down. His left hand drums, small metal pings echoing through the chamber.

Bruce had taught him square breathing.

In, hold. Out, hold. Repeat.

It doesn’t help.

Nat snaps her gum, fingers dipping along the binding of the  _HANDLER’S MANUAL_ , eyes skimming over those ten words scribbled in Russian. Her eyes bounce to Bucky, noting how he fidgets, how his leg bounces up and down and up and down and up and down.

“A long time ago,” she hums, shooting him a look. He feels like a meal she’s about to carve into. It scares him slightly, “I would have killed to have you like this. Now? I just feel bad.”

_ “Miss Romanov, Mister Stark has advised me to let you know that him and Dr. Banner are ready for you in the Panic Room. In addition, your girlfriend has come to wish you luck, Sergeant Barnes.” _

“That’s cute.”

“Shut up.”

Bucky swears he might throw up. The fear of slipping under again is enough to paralyze him -- not only because he might not ever come back, but that he’ll have to watch from the inside as this other half of him wrecks and ruins. And you’re here. And you’re going to see it.

You’re going to hate him. You’re never going to look at him the same.

“She clearly cares,” Nat hums, checking his restraints one more time before the other Maximum hold security officers begin to help her with the transportation process. They load him into the lift, metal scraping metal. “She’s rushing head on into a blast radius to wish you luck.”

His chest feels like someone wound it like a top. His sisters used to spend hours throwing and spinning an old wooden one his father had made them. His heartstrings hurt. Bucky’s knee continues to bounce.

Up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down.

“Can we just get this over with?” a pleade.

Nat notices.

“Yeah, Buck,” she says, fingers knocking the glass, “Nice and easy.”

The elevator’s slide open, revealing the medical wing. He’s wheeled down the hallway, past waiting crowd on either side.

You’re there, all soft and beautiful, and Bucky feels himself breathe -- a gulp of air, a quick hammer of his heart. Nat waves, curt and quick, and the guards stop rolling the cell. Your fingers touch the glass.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Hey, doll.”

He looks like a wreck. You want to kiss him, to make it all better. Your voice lilts and you attempt humor. Anything. You want to see him smile.

“A little wired?”

“Little bit,” he croaks, “In an explosive mood.”

You laugh, quiet and restrained. His own smile is tight. You nails ghost the glass, tapping gently and he mimics the motion. HIs eyes are stuck on yours. He’s scared and tired and panicked and you see it all.

A beat of silence.

He wishes he could kiss you.

“Alright, love-birds,” Tony claps, “We’re on a schedule here, so I hate to rush you --”

“Steve, you keep me away from her.”

Beside you, Steve nods. You blink, eyes bouncing between the two of them.

“Sam, you stay away from her,” Bucky snaps, voice strained with an attempt to lighten himself up.

“Ha, ha,” Sam kicks the cube, “Whatever you say, Summer Soldier.”

Bucky is loaded into another lift, and this time, he watches the fluorescent lights roll by, hoping Steve wouldn’t have to keep him away from you. Tony and Bruce shuffle in beside Bucky, followed by a tray of tools and an IV drip of some sedative Bruce had named earlier.

He’d explained Bucky’s metabolism, explained the serum, explained it all.

The Panic Room was designed for Banner, really. It was ideal for Hulk outs, though the idea seemed more reactionary than preventative.

It was a large room that seemed to dip downwards. Windows overlooked the actual cell, and from their high vantage point, one could see the octagonal shape of the room. The walls were vibranium, three feet thick, courtesy of T’Challa.

(He’d insisted, thinking it would do Banner some good to know that he had some security in case it happened. It did. Bruce was intune with the idea of a timeout spot.)

Bruce had explained all that, too, and you’d nodded and pretended you were  _listening_.

You think Bruce was just trying to distract you.

The redhead moves to stand beside you at the window, looking down. In her hands is a crimson book, emblazoned with an inky star. It matches the one on Bucky’s shoulder.

Handler’s instructions.

You reach, squeezing Steve’s forearm. He nods, hands clapping your shoulders as you share a moment of platonic support. He’s nearly as worried as you. His childhood best friend, his brother, was down there. And still, he stands beside you. Silent companionship.

Natasha, you assume, speaks into a microphone, flipping the pages of the book.

“Can you guys hear me?”

From up here, you can see Bucky’s knee bouncing.

Up and down and up and down and up and down.

“Sure can,” Tony chirps into his headset, “Loud and clear.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”


	19. fight or flight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no one can say the procedure goes without a hitch. there are a lot of hitches. like, maybe 16.

_“Желание.”_ **  
**

Bucky tries not to think about the needle in his arm, or the waning words coming out of Natasha’s mouth – every syllable has him locked in fear. Ten words. Ten  _long_ , painful words that have him paralyzed in his chair as Bruce and Tony watch on beside him. It’s embarrassing. Shameful, even.

He hates feeling out of control.

Blue eyes bound up the sterile walls of the Panic Room, scaling them until he sees you.

You’re rigid beneath Steve’s hold, eyes wide with fear just like his own as you chew your lip and watch with such potent worry he feels it like a wave of hot air on his face. Had he been in any other situation, he would have told you not to worry – that he’s fine.

He wasn’t fine. He was the  _opposite_ of fine.

He tries to breath, but shaky breaths rattle into his lungs and do him no justice.

Like the rush of a tide, though, this other part of him starts to battle upwards to the surface. Bucky knows he shouldn’t fight it, but he has to out of instinct. Fear.

In his weekly sessions, Bruce explained fight or flight – during panic attacks, it’s normal for Bucky to feel like he needs to run or to punch. Completely normal. He is good at explaining how fear can sometimes drive a person to react a certain way.

Fight or flight. Bucky ran from T’challa, ran from everyone after the bombing at the UN. It was out of fear. But that was months ago, and that was  _real_. Right now, in his head?

He has nowhere to run to.

_ “Ржaвый.” _

He feels like he’s been punched in the mouth, head rocketing backward as he screws his eyes shut and clenches his fists. You jump, hand gripping Natasha’s arm. She blinks down at you, pauses, and spares you a frown.

She continues reading.

_ “Семнадцать.” _

A scream. It’s a gutteral tear through the air, ripping into Nat’s headset. She winces. You screw your eyes shut – you can’t watch this. You can’t. Not when Bucky is terrified. You hear him whimper, a soft shudder of a plead, his voice cracking. He looks boyish in this moment. Young. It hurts.

“Please,  _please_ don’t,” he begs, “I can’t _do this.”_

You blink between Nat and Steve, eyes bleary with the threat of tears.

His fear is palpable.

Steve’s hand tightens reflexively around your shoulder, his own eyes hitting the floor. You inhale, breath caught in your throat as Nat continues, the Russian hissing from her lips as Bucky becomes someone else.

_ “Рассвет.” _

“No,  _no, no_ ,” his voice rises, “ _No!_  Please,  _please_ don’t  _make me do this_.”

“Stop it,” you whisper, “Stop it, he said  _stop_.”

A loud bang startles you into silence as Steve’s fingers dig into your shoulder.

It’s Bucky, worming in the confines of the restraints. He’s trying to get out, to run but he can’t. Not from himself. His boots scuffle against the metal, eyes wide as he tugs at the binds. A last ditch effort. He looks groggy, tired. Out of it.

You think you’re going to be sick.

Bruce shares a look with Tony. It’s heavy like lead, full of guilt.

_ “Печь.” _

You cover your mouth, gripping Steve’s arm so tight you’re surprised it doesn’t draw blood. Bucky, in the Panic Room, screams again – but it’s not in fear this time. It’s pain. Pure, white hot  _pain_ , carving its way up his forearm and into his head.

He feels like he’s on  _fire_.

_ “Девять.” _

It’s like a snap; it wakes something else up inside him.

No more begging, no more pleading. Just confusion. Something is stirring. And Nat continues.

_ “Bозвращение на родину.” _

You’ve never been afraid of Bucky.  _Never_. But that word – it calls attention something dark and silent and deadly inside him and from all the way up here, you know Bucky isn’t home anymore. Someone else is in his head. His eyes darkened, gaze dragging upwards from the floor.

_ “Один.” _

Nat says it with a wince. Like she knows.

So suddenly, that man in the Panic Room isn’t Bucky. Those eyes that narrow in on you aren’t the eyes of the man you’d curled up with one dark night, not the eyes of man who you’d stitched up on your bedroom floor or the eyes of the man you’d shared a milkshake with or kissed or held or so pitifully loved.

A fleeting glance of recognition is in his gaze. A raised brow. And then it’s gone.

_“Rрузовой вагон._ ”

The last phrase slams him hard in the chest and a silent cloud hangs over the room.

Nat speaks slowly. “Доброе утро, солдат.”

His voice is a low rumble; if you didn’t know any better, you’d call it a  _purr_. But it’s not. It’s dark and threatening and terrifying. Blue eyes shift from Nat’s figure, dashing to your own and you feel like you’ve been doused with ice water. His eyes never leave you as he speaks. Your face runs cold.

“Готов к выполнению.”

Nat speaks quickly in Russian as Bruce and Tony move around him. Blue eyes size up the men, lips curling into a snarl as Bruce leans, prepping the IV line and hanging the bag of the ketamine-methoxetamine-saline hybrid the two of them had cooked up to hopefully keep Bucky down.

Your eyes bounce across the scene, gaze fleeting between Bruce and Tony and Bucky and Nat. The dynamic is stiff – you can see the knowing looks Bruce and Tony share with each twitch of the Winter Soldier’s fingers.

“Do you understand the maintenance procedure?”

“Yes.”

_Harsh_. Sharp. So unlike Bucky. You can feel his eyes burrow into you. Tony appreciates the distraction. He begins the IV drip.

“Are you alright?” it’s Steve, his voice low in your ear.

You turn, wringing your hands and nodding slowly. “Bruce wasn’t kidding when he said he wouldn’t be himself for a while.”

Steve’s face softens and you exhale. Large hands skim your shoulders in a soothing way – he feels obligated to comfort you, and in doing so he can feel himself relax. He’s always been chided for being too worried about Buck, but now with you doing the same, Steve feels a little more valid in his feelings.

“He’s like a brother to me,” it’s quiet, “Seeing him like this… I can’t  _stand_ it. That’s not Bucky.”

“He used to be worse,” Nat speaks. Your head snaps to her and you blink. She looks you up and down. She seems satisfied and you half expect her to pick her teeth clean, “Used to be  _ruthless_. Before they  _disciplined_ him, that is. He was cigarettes and motorcycles and  _mean_ and before they fried his brain. From that point forward? A compliant, walking weapon. A war lapdog.”

“Two dozen assassinations will make you ruthless,” Steve counters.

You feel your heart sink. “Two  _dozen_?”

Nat squares you up from the corner of her eye. Her tone is light. It shocks you. “He didn’t share that? I can’t imagine  _why_.”

A warning; this time, it’s from Sam. “Nat, focus.”

You try not to dwell on it. As if you weren’t feeling sick before.

You step forward and lean on the glass, eyes turned back to the vertigo wracked Winter Soldier; his head bobs, eyes heavy and face twisted in discomfort. Tony and Bruce, though, are fast at work on his left side – the panelling is open and they’re both sifting through wires and circuitry.

“Hard part is almost over,” you hear Tony chatter into the headset, “It’s naptime.”

You see the broad shoulders of the Winter Soldier slump. His head rolls forward.

“Sweet dreams, my broody prince,” Tony quips, “Sweet dreams.”

* * *

Bucky, inside his mind, is screaming.

He feels the snap inside him, feels the way this other part of him flood to the surface. He’s looking at you like a meal – like a starving man would look at a steak. He hates himself for it. He screams and fights it and still, this other half snarls and considers what it would be like to  _wrap his hands around your neck._

But, soon enough, he’s thrown head first into a blurred euphoria – sleep tugs at him, and before he even realizes he’s asleep, his waist deep in a memory bathed in gold.

It’s his mother.

She’s in the kitchen, smiling at Rebecca who’s clinging to her leg. It’s noon. The sun feels warm on Bucky’s face and he feels a tug of happiness settle in his heart. He can smell the garlicky pork sausages she’s cooking –  _Cârnați._

Romanian. It smells like home.

_ “Dragă mea!” _

Maybe he shuffles, maybe he laughs – but he blinks and his mother is holding his face. She’s  _beautiful_ , like he remembers. Her hair is finely braided, whisked up off her neck. She has no wedding ring on. She sold it long ago to pay for his boxing lessons. Rebecca is chattering in Romanian as his mother kisses his cheeks and cries and wails and smiles so large his heart is so full it could burst.

“ _Look at you,”_  she coos, tears in her eyes, “So handsome. My son, I’m so glad you’re home. _I missed you._ I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, mamă.”

His voice cracks. He swallows the lump in his throat.

Somewhere off in the other cramped part of that Brooklyn apartment, his other sisters giggle.

Rebecca tugs on his slacks.

Uniformed.

U.S. Army dress uniform.

He blinks.

He never came home. This isn’t his memory.  _This didn’t happen._

And gold suddenly turns to rust and it’s not a warm afternoon in the summer, no, it’s late winter and it’s cold and it’s raining icy pin-pricks and his grave is being wept over by a distraught mother and three little sisters. There are flowers, there is black. Tears. He feels them on his face and he crumples to the ground he screams to his mother that he’s here – he’s alive and he’s here and he loves her and he loves Rebecca and Jenny and Georgia.

He can’t tell if his face is wet with tears or rain.

He screams.  _“Mamă! I’m here, I’m right here. I’m here, please.”_

His voice is hoarse but she hears nothing.

“Mamă,  _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._ I never came back,  _I’m sorry! Mamă, please –_ ”

It splinters and shatters and falls apart in his throat.

“Mamă,  _please_ , I miss you – I want my  _mamă_.”

He crumples, falling beside her and watching his fingers slip through her broken frame. Bucky feels the panic bubble in his throat, eyes bleary with tears as he hiccups – he feels young and lost and heartbroken. He wants his mamă.

But, nothing. She cries. And Bucky drowns himself in his own tears.

_ I love you and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I love you and I am so sorry I never came home. _

I love you.

He loves you.

_You_.

You’re like a lullaby, soft and sweet and coaxing and you’re bathed in pinks and lilacs and roses. You smile and his mouth tastes like honey. Your smile is like sunlight. You’re the sun. But he’s carrying himself towards you and he is iron and blood and all those colors you aren’t. He’s cold and mean and ruthless and you still smile.

He wants to kiss you, to cry, and hide himself away tucked close to your heart.

But gunmetal digits curl around your throat and he’s screaming.

Fear. Pain. You mirror him.

His heartstrings snap him awake.

* * *

Tony and Bruce are nearly done when Bucky snaps awake, eyes wild and mouth moving quickly in some panicked language you don’t know. He’s screaming, fighting against the restrains. His eyes are wild with fear, heavy with worry. The sounds that tear from his throat are broken screams, shattered with emotions as tears streak his cheekbones.

The room is spinning – no doubt a nasty side effect of the methoxetamine – and the room warps and distorts itself. There’s a battle in his head. He feels himself washing back to the surface, but in the haze of panic and fear he find the other half of himself searching for you. 

He needs to know you’re okay.

Fear bites him hard.

“Где она?” he hisses. He looks like a feral dog, teeth barred and eyes dark with anger. His muscles tense, body snapping against the metal confines as the vibranium echoes, _“Где мой солнечный свет?”_

He curls his fist, flexing as metal warps and clangs and groans.

“What the hell –”

“He’s awake, Stark,” it’s Nat speaking quickly into her headset, “He’s awake.”

“I can  _see_ that, Nat,” Tony snaps, moving even faster than before. You can see him yanking out the wiring from Bucky’s forearm, plucking wires and handing them to Bruce as the good doctor pans over schematics, “Thank you for the observation.”

In one fluid motion, Tony yanks the remaining wiring of H.Y.D.R.A.’s failsafe IED from Bucky’s forearm.

Relief floods the room.

Panic shortly replaces it.

_“Да отвали ты от меня!”_ it’s a harsh snap, muscles flexing as the panicked assassin struggles in his binds, “Да отвали ты от меня!”

“What the hell is he saying, Nat?”

Nat is frozen, eyes wide and trained on Bruce.

“He’s saying ‘ _get away from me_ ’,” she spills out, leaning onto the command console, “Both of you, get out of there –”

One loud metal ring echoes through the Panic Room.

Bruce’s eyes dart down to the broken cuff.

The Winter Soldier’s right hand flies to the IV, calloused fingers prying it away from vein with a flick of the wrist.

“Get out of there.  _Now_.”

The bind on his left arm goes next.

Tony isn’t fast enough.

Bruce scrambles to the lift; smashing the buttons, you notice how quiet Bruce has become – he looks like he’s going to puke, and when he falls through the doors, away from the danger of the Winter Soldier, Nat is by his side in an instant.

She cards a hand through his hair and mumbles something about the sun getting low.

When you tear your gaze away from the scene, blue eyes strike you again, like a bullet, and you see the faint glaze of recognition there. His metal hand is around Tony’s throat, venom filled threats seething from his mouth as he drives Tony backwards into the wall below the window. The slam echoes and you cover your mouth to smother a shout.

Bucky’s mouth moves and Tony struggles to claw at the hand around his throat.

“Мое солнце.”

Nat speaks quickly. Her eyes bore into you. “He wants  _you_. He wants you down there.”

Ice runs through your veins.

Steve spits out his words. “You’re kidding.”

Every part of you is telling you not too, but your heart is tugging you to the elevator before Steve can stop you. Your sneakers pound against the floor as you skid, punching the button quickly and pushing the sleeves of your sweater up. The lift hums, dropping low into the panic room.

There’s a split second before the doors open and you contemplate running – locking the doors and curling up and crying but then you think about Bucky, terrified, writhing in the chair. He’s as scared as you are.

For him.

Tony is gasping, dress shoes scuffing as he kicks at the wall – he’s trying to get some traction, to make the pressure on his throat not so severe. His face is blood red.

Bucky’s brow is dead set in anger. Until the elevator pings.

His eyes snap to the doors.

They slide open and you step out, hands raised and slow. One step after the other. Your eyes meet his and that’s enough. Vibranium digits release their hold on Tony’s windpipe and he slides to the floor, coughing and choking as he tries to catch his breath.

You remember the first time you ever saw the Winter Soldier in the subway. He stalked you, like prey, but this time it’s different. It lacks the precision. It’s groggy and rushed, his steps are forceful and purposeful and hard. Step after step and you’re rooted to the floor. You note the way his fingers flex, how his lips move and he rumbles out strings of words in Russian.

“Мне приснилось, что я убил тебя. Я погасил солнце,” his voice heavy with worry and you swallow, “Мое солнце, мой цветок, моя любовь.”

Tony groans over Bucky’s shoulder and you wince – your voice soft. “Bucky, I don’t  _understand_ what you’re saying.”

A quizzical look. His head tilts.

“Who is  _Bucky_?”

“You are – you’re James Buchanan Barnes. Everyone calls you Bucky,” you say softly, moving slowly to move closer to Tony, “You’re from  _Brooklyn_. You’re the oldest of four. You have three sisters and your mother is from Romanian… You and I…”

You sidestep. You put yourself between him and Tony.

“You and I are  _together_ ,” you say softly, handing extending in a tentative gesture, “We’re seeing one another. We haven’t had our second date yet, though, and I promised I’d take you somewhere nice.”

He blinks at your hands. He moves, fingers brushing yours.

A glimmer of realization. It sparks a fire.

“I call you doll.”

“Yeah,” your lips quirk, “You do.”

“You’re my sun,” he says, “You’re the girl in my head.”

“Maybe I am.”

“I dream about you,” he mumbles, “I dream about you a lot.”

Your heart leaps. Those blue eyes aren’t so dark anymore.

Hands sweep along your jaw, warm fingers tender against the skin there. His left hand dips along your neck, raising goosebumps in its wake. It’s an affectionate gesture. It’s followed by a heavy kiss, mouth biting against your own as he exhales. His stubble rubs, tickling and harsh, and everything is so suddenly Bucky you freeze completely.

“I’m  _sorry_ ,” he whispers, pulling his lips from yours with a long drawn bite, “I’m so sorry – I’m  _here_ , it’s me.”

You exhale, melting against his touch and knot your fingers into the material of his shirt. “It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay.  _You’re okay_. Everything’s okay.”

His head falls, burying into the crook of your shoulder as his arms wrap around your waist. He rocks softly, still rolling in the remnants of the sedatives. Tony exhales, flopping backwards onto the floor as long drawn sobs are muffled into the collar of your sweater. Bucky’s shoulders shake, fingers gripping the back of your sweater like you might disappear.

You card your fingers through his hair.

He cries harder.


	20. good, not perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showers and soups. And a lot of tears.

Bucky falls through the doorway of the bathroom in his quarters, gut lurching violently. His knees hit the tile, boots scuffling against the bathmat beneath him. Calloused fingers grip the edge of the toilet, kissing the porcelain, as he proceeds to vomit.  


You wince from your spot in the doorway.

Steve, from his spot outside the hall, grimaces. He leans against the wall. The blonde blinks down at you as you sigh softly. Bucky, in the bathroom, groans.

“You want help with him?”

“I think I can handle it,” you say gently, peeking into the doorway. You spot Bucky push hair out of his face, fingers white as he grips the toilet bowl, “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

_ It’s a lie. You’ve never had to deal with the come down after a violent dissociative high, but you’ll be damned if anyone tries to take you away from Bucky right now. _

Steve’s lip pull upwards. “If you need  _anything_ , you have my cell.”

A soft pause. You both share a smile.

“Thank you,” you reach out, squeezing his forearm, “You’re a good guy, Steve.”

“I try,” he chides, turning and tucking his hands in his pockets, “It’s part of the whole superhero gig, you know?”

You hear the Brooklyn accent lean into his words then. It makes you smile.

Steve gives a mock salute before starting down the hall. “For now, I’m going to play damage control… And I’m  _serious_. If you need anything –”

He turns on his heel and begins walking backwards. His brows are raised, finger pointing at you.

You raise your hand. “I’ll call. I will. Can’t lie to Captain America. That’s…  _Un-American._ ”

Steve fights a laugh.

In the bathroom, Bucky pukes again.

Closing the door to his quarters behind you, you’re quick to carry yourself through the kitchenette and through the open door of the bathroom. Bucky’s settled onto the floor there with wild hair as his body lurches again.

You sigh, worry creasing your brows.

“Hi Buck,” it’s soft. Your nails dance against his shoulders through the red material of his long sleeve, “It’s me.”

His fingers lift in acknowledgement. He doesn’t lift his head. Instead, he gives a shaky exhale. You frown. Flattening your palm against his back, you rub a small circle there before yanking your hair down from it’s bun, carding fingers through his hair quickly to pull it back in a sloppy ponytail. He pukes  _again_ , this time dry and painful.

You slip to the floor beside him and move to work your fingers to push pieces of his shorter hair behind his ears. His skin is glossy with sweat, and his lashes are wet with tears from the pure hell the methoxetamine-ketamine IV drip withdrawals are putting him through. You can see the frustration tense his shoulders.

His head bobs. He’s hazy with vertigo.

In the mist of it, you’re there. You’re beautiful.

It takes a few minutes of quiet breathing, of your fingers working into the muscles of his shoulders, but finally, the rolling dizziness settles. He swipes at his mouth with his knuckles. You sigh, a bit relieved, and push the chrome handle down – the flushing echoes off the quiet walls of his room.

“There we go.”

Rubbing his thigh, Bucky nods. His face is still pale. You pout, chest aching.

“Want me to run the shower?” your voice is quiet, fingers soothing a pattern into the material of his jeans, “It might help you feel better.”

A feeble nod.

Bucky feels  _pathetic_.

After being rocketed back to this planet, realizing he’d nearly decapitated Tony and nearly woke up the Big Mean Giant, Bucky was socked in the face with the comedown off the sedatives they’d used on him. The nerve endings in his arm are on fire – the last part of the job hadn’t been gentle.

Metal fingers twitch.

Guilt is settled neatly into the pit of his stomach.

He thought he was getting better, he thought that control was something he’d regained and proudly adapted to. But now? Now he’s  _scared_. It’s worse than before. There’s something inside of him that he doesn’t know - something that could snap and maim or kill you like it’s the easiest thing to do. Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Bucky spits, swiping at his mouth.

Bucky Barnes hates himself.

You stand, pulling yourself from the bathroom floor, and quickly starting the shower.

He winces; the movement is too quick and with the fading haze of vertigo still lingering in the back of his head, Bucky can feel his sense of control dissipate. It scares him. His fingers push at his scalp.

With your back turned, Bucky rubs his face, pawing at his eyes and trying to hide the shudder of a sob threatening to bubble back up. He fails, muscles tensing as he locks his arms around himself.

You hear it.

“ _Buck_.”

It’s soft, spoken with a gentle realization. You slip back down to your knees, hands fitting on either side of his face as he swipes at the hot tears spilling over his lashes. Your heart hurts.

“No,” you say, “No crying, Buck. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he croaks, “I’m…  _I’m not fine_.”

“I know.”

It’s a breathless murmur, arms slipping around his neck as he clings desperately to your waist. His tears are hot against the shoulder of your sweater. He chokes, fingers curling into the fabric there as he pulls you closer.

You let him, fingers knotting into his hair.

It takes him a while, but as the steam starts to feel more palpable in the air of the bathroom and his sobs settle, you feel him relax a bit in your arms.

“What can I do?” it’s gentle, lips pressed to the shell of his ear as your pepper quick pecks to his temple, “You name it and I’ll do it. For you.”

His words are muffled into your shoulder.

“Just…” he pulls his head up, eyes red and nose raw, “Don’t  _leave_.”

It’s spoken with such disparity you feel your heartstring snap. It hurts, and it aches. Bucky’s gaze meets yours, blurred and red with tears as he hiccups to muffle another sob. You feel something stir in the pit of your stomach, fingers pushing through his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, voice so tender it’s nearly a whisper, “Not when my best guy needs me.”

Bucky chokes, chest jumping with a sob. In seconds, he’s falling apart before you, head ducked in shame as he does. His fingers tighten into your sweater, twisting and knotting. He clings to you, like a raft in the middle of a tumultuous ocean and it hurts. The ache in your chest cements itself there, weighing your ribs down with the pressure of heartbreak.

You try and shush his cries, to calm him down.

It doesn’t work, not until he’s cried all he can cry and finds himself drifting in and out of his own head on that bathroom floor. Behind him, the shower water thrums against the wall. When silence falls over the both of you, when Bucky’s eyes run dry, you speak. It’s slow, quiet.

“Come on, handsome,” you smooth a hand over the curve of his shoulder, “Let’s get you up. Showered.”

He nods. He stands.

Your fingers are quick, though, moving to rub his back as he stands. His hands pull at the hem of his shirt, movements slow, before discarding it on the ledge of the sink. Buck swallows, a spark of pain shooting up his arm as his shoulder rotates and shows on his face – you frown, eyes glued onto the deep pink divots of scar tissues decorating the seam there.

“Sore?”

Another nod.

Bucky sees how your eyes zero in on his shoulder, how they dance down the metal seams. Vulnerability settles in his chest and he turns, moving to face the shower as he works at his belt buckle, kicking his jeans away as he does his boots and socks.

He doesn’t want to see the fear in your eyes.

You recoil slightly, hand left lingering in the air. You drop that hand, wringing it with anxious and stifling emotions.  

“Buck.”

He pauses, fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers. Blue eyes catch you over his shoulder. Your eyes are sad.

“Don’t,” you say, head shaking softly, “Don’t shut me out.”

His eyes flutter shut, hands dropping as he turns, bare feet on the tile. His hand sweeps your cheek. Your fingers tighten their grip on his metal forearm. Bucky swallows.

“This doesn’t scare me. This doesn’t… change the way I feel about you,” you say, chin raised as you stare him down, “The arm, the shady past, the brainwashing. None of it.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

His voice is hoarse.

You laugh. He blinks.

“You’re right,” you hum, “You deserve  _so much better._  You deserve the world.”

 Bucky’s heartstrings pluck like the chord of a harp. His brows crease, blue eyes searching your own for some sense of sarcasm – anything, really – but he finds nothing. You just smile, soft and wonderful, and his heart hammers loud under the bare skin of his chest. Tired eyes fleet shut at your touch, fingertips meeting the joint of his arm. It soothes the burn. For a moment, the soreness fades.

“I don’t,” he breathes, “I’ve killed people –”

“That wasn’t you.”

“But I did it.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” your voice is strong with a stillness that quiets him, “You’re a good man, Bucky Barnes, and I’ll say it until the day I die.”

_A good man_. He doesn’t feel good. He feels worthless. Reused. Broken.

It shows.

His gaze hits the floor again.

You move, fingers tracing the scars along his chest.

 “You should shower,” your voice is the one that pitches and breaks this time, “I’ll fix you something to eat, okay?”

Another nod.

And he ditches his boxers and you look away. The sound of the curtain being yanked back startles you a little, but you’re quick to gather his clothes into your arms and grab his boots. Closing the door to the bathroom over, you tiptoe out into the expanse of the rest of his room.

His bed is tucked into the far corner; it has a direct view of the door and the windows above the desk in the far end of the room. His nightstand is bare aside from one framed picture. It’s him, three girls and an older woman. 

Dropping Bucky’s clothes onto the edge of his bed, you settle beside the pile and gently pick up the frame.

The bottom has a date scrawled -  _Christmas, 1933_  - and you note the way Bucky’s smile livens the whole photo. The young girl on his lap is giggling up at him, and the warm hand on his shoulder speaks of a mother’s love. She looks like him. Her eyes are soft with wisdom and love, hair plaited, and her hands cradle another child. Not much younger than the other in Bucky’s arms. The oldest of the girls, gap toothed and bubbly, stands beside Bucky. Her fingers are twisted in his pant leg.

 It’s his  _family_.

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears run down your chin.

Setting the frame down carefully, you stand and swipe at the stray tears wetting your cheeks before rounding the kitchen island and moving to the fridge.

It’s dark. Flicking a few switches, you finally get the kitchen illuminated.

The area is relatively bare save for a bowl of plums on the island. You notice a dirty bowl in the sink. The remnants of bran flakes cling to the ceramic.

Yanking open the fridge, you nearly laugh.

There’s  _nothing_  - save for a bottle of ketchup, some pickles, butter and a half-full gallon of milk - and you figure that’s fair. You can take the man out of the Great Depression, but old habits die hard. You remember your grandparents being the same way. Live simply, live frugally.

Tugging open the cabinets, you’re glad to find a can of tomato soup and some spices, so you settle on heating it up on the stove top. Thankfully, the supersoldier did have bread, so you make to toast some. 

Ten minutes pass, you have the soup plated with buttered toast. Silence fills the kitchen.  


The shower is still running.

Poking your head into the bathroom, you knock quietly before calling his name.

_ “Buck?” _

You hear him sniffle, voice hoarse. “Be out in a second.”

The steam from the shower is warm. The white noise is soothing. Maybe he’s calmed down.

But he doesn’t move. The stream of the shower is steady. Your feet are rooted in that doorway for a blink. And then your heart tugs you into that bathroom, hands gentle as they pull back the curtain. He has his hands braced against the wall, shoulders quaking with quiet tears.

The cold air hits him, muscles tensing as your gaze lands on him again.

Raw eyes find yours through damp hair and he sees you sag. You say his name again.

He feels  _pitiful_.

And then you kick your shoes off and you climb across the threshold of the shower edge.

Your hands are on the planes of his waist, fingers mingling with the kiss of the hot water. It’s grounding, a reminder that he’s here and you’re here and he’s okay. You’re not scared of him, you’re not mad, you’re… you’re here. His chest lurches, an angry sob leaving his throat as you curl around him so willingly.

“I’m  _not_  a good man,” he chokes, “I’m  _not_.”

The water spills across his back, the hot stream of the shower drenching your through your sweater and your jeans. Your hair clings to your face. The curve of his back is solid against your fingers. Your palms scale the scars where his arm meets his torso. They’re angry. You make work at soothing them.

“I think you are,” you say, “Maybe a little broken, a little hurt inside, but good.  _Good men aren’t perfect._ ”

That settles him.

Your touch settles him.

And for a while, you both stand there. You hold him, lips pressed against slick skin and hot metal. Bucky’s fingers find yours. He grips them like a prayer. Finally, when the water runs cold and your fingers prune, he turns the knob and silence washes over you both. He pushes his hands through his hair. It’s slicked back with water. He looks like the boy in the picture beside his bed.

The air isn’t as thick as it was before.

He’s quick to tie a towel low around his waist as he steps from the shower. Your socks slap against the floor. Bucky makes a face.

“Wet socks.”

“Anything for you.”

His smile is only a quirked corner of his mouth, but you’ll take it.

“Gimme a second,” he says, voice quiet, “I’ll get you something to change into.”

You nod. You settle against the sink.

Sure enough, he returns with a long sleeve and a pair of athletic shorts emblazoned with the Avengers logo. His face is apologetic.

“Thank you,” you smile, taking the pile of clothes, “I’ll be out in a second. Your soup is ready when you are. Might need to be nuked a little.”

He doesn’t know what _‘nuked’_ means, but Bucky closes the door to the bathroom anyways. He throws on sweats and a t-shirt, too tired to think of pulling on jeans and something nicer. Normally he would. You deserved the courtesy. He tugs his hair back. He itches the heavy stubble along his jaw.

He settles at the counter, calloused fingers curled around the cold bowl of soup. It smells good. The bread is buttered. His spoon tinkers against the plate.

You step out of the bathroom, having tossed damp clothes over the shower rod. The shorts are huge on you and you’ve rolled the waistband three times, but still they sag on your hips and swim around your thighs. The shirt is no better. The sleeves pool around your wrists.

Your hair is tugged into a wet bun. Your mascara is smudged under your eyes.

Bucky thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

His spoon clinks against his bowl, maybe a little too loud, and blue eyes follow you across the kitchen.

“Soup’s good.”

“I woulda made something with a bit more stock,” you say, rounding the counter to lean against the marble beside him, “But you have nothing in your fridge.”

“I have plenty.”

His mouth is full when he says it. You smile.

“Mm,” you nod, rolling your eyes, “Do you live off pickles exclusively, or…?”

“Don’t knock the pickles.”

He says it with such seriousness you have to laugh, eyes bright with affection. Your fingers reach out, curling into the back of his t-shirt. Bucky chews his toast. He watches you, face warm.

He’s okay. He’s fine. He’s not perfect. And that’s okay. If you think so, then maybe he should too.

“You sure are something, Bucky Barnes.”

“Says you.”

You kiss him then.

It’s tentative.

It’s all he needs.

His fingers curl along your jaw, cradling your face as he ignores your breathy laughter against his lips. It’s a slow kiss, laden with appreciation and affection and something sad. You tug on his shirt, enjoying the warmth of his skin through the cotton. He towers over you and your bare feet mingle with the white of his socks against the cool tile of the kitchen.

It feels domestic and it feels right.

He tastes like tomato soup in the light of the kitchenette.

You pull yourself back, back to earth, back to the man before you.

“I don’t deserve you,” you mumble, thumb skirting over the dimple in his chin, “I don’t.”

“You’re right,” he croaks, “You deserve the world.”


	21. foreshadows.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are not going to be fine.

Peter gets the text in his third period Chem class.

It’s from Tony – it’s a little more cryptic than normal, and Peter screws his face up blinking down at the glow of his phone under his desk. Ned nudges him, brows raised, imploring the nature of the Stark contact name. Peter just shrugs. He juts the phone Ned’s way, brows raised.

_ Tower @ 5, need to talk security prep. _

“Prep for what?”

It’s a hushed whisper as Ned leans, trying to play off getting an additional notebook from his backpack as he does so. Peter, again, shrugs.

“Spangles and W.S. have a mission out east?” Peter thinks, eyes darting around as he searches his brain, “Maybe it’s about that girl –”

Codenames are second nature now, and it has Ned nodding.

“The one with the Winter Babe?” Ned implores, “He seems like the protective type –”

“Will you  _stop_ calling him that?” Peter hisses, “Sergeant Barnes would  _kill_ you if he knew you called him that. The guy is terrifying –”

“Terrifyingly  _beautiful_.”

Peter just rolls his eyes.

* * *

Steve thinks it’s cute how concerned Bucky is – but it’s more than a little overboard.

Steve is sure if you knew how much he was fretting, you’d set him in his place; but with your second date looming on the horizon, Bucky has you on the forefront of his mind, and with their impending mission out in Nevada to follow a newly cropped up lead on H.Y.D.R.A., the Winter Soldier has expressed immediate worry about leaving you alone.

Tony had joking called it “separation anxiety”, but the Bucky went and paced in Tony’s office for so long, about an hour and half to be exact, the billionaire finally agreed to calling Happy and Peter in to talk about some added surveillance around your apartment and classes. 

Tony called him ‘Cujo’ again, but this time it was said with warmth and Bucky is starting to notice a trend. He’s a lovesick pup, fretting over you endlessly.

Easing the Winter Soldier’s anxiety was no easy task.

Peter can tell everyone is a little high strung when he walks into Tony’s office only to be greeted by Happy at the door. Happy looks…  _unhappy_. More so than  _usual_. And that’s saying something. The bodyguard ushers Peter in, closing the door behind him and huffing.

Steve is puttering around by the bay windows, admiring the cityscape as Tony rubs his face from behind his desk, looking like he needs a drink more and more with each passing second. The only sound in the room is the tapping of a foot and the clicking of a pen.

It’s Bucky in the far corner.

The dark haired ex-assassin in poised in a leather chair, leaning it back on its supports as his leg bounces. He’s worrying his lip, fingers pressed to his chin with arms crossed. In his metal hand, his thumb presses the cap of a papermate pen.  _Up and down and up and down_. 

He’s trying to stay busy.

_Click pen, bounce knee, chew lip, click pen, don’t think about leaving her alone,_ ignore the taste of blood _, click pen, bounce knee, keep chewing_.

His tics swell and rise with his anxiety. Bucky can’t help it. 

What if something happens?  _Click the pen harder._

Tony’s eye twitches.

“Hey guys,” Peter tries his best to seem calm and to not feel stifled by the overwhelming sense of anxiety flooding the room, “What’s going on?”

“Kid,  _listen_ , I trust you,” Tony begins, “And because I trust you, I’m assigning you to a very important task.”

Peter’s face splits and a nervous laugh bubbles out of his chest.

Bucky’s eyes are icy, skimming the kid’s face. He’s a child. Not even old enough to drink. Bucky wonders if he himself ever looked that  _innocent_ , that bright-eyed. He suddenly find himself wishing for naive memories of childhood.

“Bucky and I are heading to Nevada tomorrow morning,” Steve says, turning and moving to lean against Tony’s desk. The blonde’s bulky shoulder obscure Tony’s line of vision and the billionaire rolls his eyes. Stark stands, smoothing his slacks as he does so before clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. A pause. Peter misreads it.

“Am I going with them?!”

“ _God no,”_  Stark shoots it down quickly and Peter deflates, “No, this is a little more important.”

The Midtown High Schooler deadpans. “Let me  _guess_. I’m holding down the fort?”

“Better,” Stark raises a finger, poking Peter’s nose, “Personal security… Surveillance…  _Stalking_. Call it what you like.”

Peter blinks. His brows screw together. “Who?”

“Bucky’s girl.”

Steve is smirking.

Bucky, though, isn’t in the mood. His voice is a low growl. Blue eyes pin Peter down to the carpet, rooting those red converse there with the fear of being mauled by the wolf-like man. Bucky stands moving across the room and Peter realizes he forgot how big the guy was – broad and all muscle and his gait is a little off. He walks with his weight leaned, to compensate for the heavy metal arm countering his balance.

Suddenly there’s a calloused finger in Peter’s face.

“If  _anything_ happens to her while I’m gone,” he breathes, “You’re as good as dead.”

Peter swallows.

A beat of silence. The pen clicks.

His voice shakes. “So I guess that date I crashed went well?”

* * *

Ned calls Peter later that night. Peter has a box of take-out shoved half-way down his throat when he answers, chopsticks operating more like shovels that anything. He kicks the door to the fridge closed, moving across the kitchen to throw himself onto the couch.

“Dude,” Peter gargles, “It’s that chick.”

_ “What chick?” _

“The one,” Peter motions in the air, phone tucked into the crook of his shoulder, “The one we saw with W.S. when we got shakes at the diner. I’m working security for her.”

_ “Oh my god, he’s protective too? This guy is perfect.” _

“Okay, dial it back, Ned,” a sigh, “I think this is all one of those ‘Peter is still a kid’ moments.”

_ “Well, I mean, you’re working detail, right? Isn’t that Happy’s job? That’s a lot of responsibility!” _

Another sigh. More of a huff. Peter scrapes the bottom of the box. “Happy is doing it. With me. We’re a team, apparently.”

Ned pauses.  _“Okay, so this is ‘Peter is still a kid’ work.”_

“Essentially,” Peter huffs, “I mean, she’s a barista. And a student. It’s not like she lives this large and dangerous life and needs watching. Like, W.S. wanted me to stake-out and wait for her to go to bed and stuff – he kept mentioning how he always finishes his rounds with her apartment and that she doesn’t live in the best area, and make sure her window is locked and blah, blah blah.”

Peter’s voice dips low to mimic Bucky’s. It’s not right. There’s more growl. The teenager clears his throat, chucking his chinese food box in the trash. A straight shot.

“Anyways,” he reclines, rubbing his face, “Let’s just hope nothing happens. Sergeant Barnes threatened to snap my neck if anything happens to her.”

_ “What’s the worst that could happen?” _

* * *

Second dates are a big deal, or at least that’s what Wanda said. It shouldn’t be though, after all you’d so suddenly become this crutch in his life – going out to eat was nothing. You two had become fixtures in each other’s routines. Bucky finds himself more apt to touch you after everything that happened with his hard rewire. He trusts himself less, but the aching tug you provide numbs the insecurities. You kissed his metal knuckles last night before bed.

You two were just going to dinner. Tony had paid for the tab as a _thank you for not snapping my neck_ , and it made you laugh. Bucky drowned his guilt in your smile. You’d rubbed your palm across the heavy curve of his back, promising it would be fun.

Not a big deal.

But then, you saunter out of your apartment in some high heels and this pretty pink dress that stops mid thigh and Bucky Barnes is left gasping for air as he realizes _this is a big deal_ , that he’s falling more and more in love with you and it’s absolutely  _pitiful_ , and it begins to set in as he stands there on the sidewalk. He fiddles with his cufflinks again, tilting and rotating and tightening again. He can’t help it — you’re beautiful, breathtakingly so, and the way you croon his name with a pearly smile has him feeling a little dizzy.

He wants this feeling to last forever. Maybe that’s what Wanda meant.

You move to kiss him, fingers dashing against his waist as you greet him, and Bucky’s heart stutters. Your lips leave a burning reminder against his own, and he misses the lost contact the second you pull away. It’s too chaste. Your lips taste like strawberry.

He clears his throat, swallows down the affection, but still his heart threatens to leap out of his mouth.

“You look really pretty,” he chokes, trying not to stare, “Beautiful.”

Your smile digs into your cheeks. You pull your jacket a little closer. “Kiss ass.”

He wishes.

Your fingers slide into his hand, soft fingers tangling within his calloused ones. You lean into him, happy to be by his side. Bucky’s eyes are swimming with some warm emotion – he’s going soft. He’s thankful for it. He hated being so distant, so  _cold_.

“Are you hungry?”

It’s quiet. He’s distracted, zeroing in on the way your lashes kiss your cheeks with each blink.

You glance up at him and flash a toothy grin. “Starved.”

You could eat him up. He could devour you.

* * *

Things are brewing.

Siberia yields a new man, wrought from vibranium and ice and pain. He’s reborn, mangled and broken and angry. He comes into the world screaming, fearful and cold, ready for vengeance.

Lab coats and wide eyes hear him utter his first words.

_“Steve Rogers, that son of a bitch!”_ the screams rise over the bending of restraints,  _“I rip him apart!”_

A man with a crimson face watches, and smiles.

“And so it begins.”

* * *

He looks good – really good.

His dress shirt makes him look  _sharp_ , but you’re well aware of the softness of the man across the dinner table from you. He had held your hand the entire walk over, he’d held the door open, pulled your seat out. He’s gentle, not only in manners but in touch – you wish he’d hold you tighter and never let go.

The candle from the center of the table flickers and his cheekbones glow with warmth. You try not to stare, try not to watch the way his blue eyes skim the menu in his hands, how his brows knot at the French dishes he’s never even heard of.

His lips move, and he squints a little. It makes you smile.

You both look _so out of place_  in the empty dining room of the _Soleil d’Or._

Bucky blinks up and finds you staring. It makes his gut swim with something elated. You look beautiful in a blush dress you’d borrowed from Marissa – it dips low, and the delicate chain around your neck with a single charm distracts as it gleams in the candlelight. You bury your nose back into the menu and Bucky does the same, lips quirked into a pleased smile.

He’s lovesick.

His foot nudges yours. You nudge back.

The waiter comes around.

“Any idea what you’d both like?”

You flounder. Bucky does too.

And then he butchers the name of Blanquette De Veau, pronouncing the words with a  _Romanian_ lilt instead of a French one that has the waiter laughing. You’re no better. You took French in highschool but that is so not how you say  _‘coquilles’._

When the waiter finally takes the order and your menus, you snag your water and take a sip before leaning in close, stealing a glance around the room. It’s dimly lit, tables illuminated by candles and swallowed up by a plush purple carpet. Outside the large bay windows surrounding the room, New York’s skyline glitters. It’s beautiful.

“So, not going to tell me anything about this little mission you’re being sent on?”

Blue eyes flicker upwards, catching your gaze and holding it steady for a few beats of a second. Bucky exhales, a bit of anxiety winding like a coil in his chest as he rubs his knees and leans back a little. His chair creaks.

“It’s only five days.”

_“Only?_ ” you chide, lips quirking, “That’s forever. I’m not sure I can handle it.”

Those words soften up his smile and he ducks his face towards the ivory tablecloth. “Stop it.”

“It’s true,” you lean, draping an open palm across the table. It’s an invitation. He gladly accepts it. You speak slowly, delicate fingers tracing over his knuckles. His head swims. You smile, “I mean, you’re basically my own personal heater –”

Another laugh. This one is breathier.

“More like a security blanket, maybe.”

Bucky’s gaze settles on your face, drinking in the palpable affection. He can feel it pluck his heartstrings and play them like a sonata. You can see it on his face. The confession settles between you both and you’re not so ashamed of it.

It wasn’t a lie. He’d become a part of your bed, just like your sheets and comforter and pillow. He was there, warm and big and snoring – but safe and protecting. Sometimes he’d curl his arms around your middle and hold you. You slept best then, swallowed up under the covers and braced in the arms of James Buchanan Barnes.

This last week had solidified the ever growing fact you were head over heels for the broken man. You keep it to yourself, exposing it only in calculated touches and chaste kisses. It was brewing.

“You’ll be fine,” he says finally, “And I’ll be home before you even realize I’m gone.”

_“Doubtful_ ,” you chide, sipping your water. Eyes roam across his chest, noting the tug of the buttons across the front. The fit is tight. “But I’ll have to enjoy the complete quiet while I can.”

“I don’t snore  _that_ loud.”

You laugh, leaning against the high back of your chair. You cross your legs. Your foot darts up his calf. He swallows. It’s thick. A rosy glow climbs his collar. “I don’t mind it, really. You can be as  _loud_ as you want.”

There’s a flash of something in your eyes. Bucky has to clear his throat.

He wonders if the old Bucky was better at flirting, if the prospect of intimacy didn’t  _terrify_ him.

“Why Nevada?” you prod, noting the way his eyes drift up and away back to self doubt. You’re quick to reel him back in, “Aliens?”

A confused blink. It’s adorable.

_ “Aliens?” _

“Yeah,” you wave your hands, “Like, Area 51?”

“… What?”

You chew your lip, biting back a smile as Bucky grows ever more flustered with every passing second. “It’s… well, I guess you wouldn’t know that reference – people used to think this Air Force base out there is actually a top secret Government facility that housed aliens and UFO’s and stuff? That’s Area 51. I mean, know we know it’s a Chitauri tech test site, so –  _yeah_.”

“What’s that thing you say?” he tilts his head, “ _That’s a hard no?”_

You bloom with laughter, nodding. “Yeah,  _a hard no._ ”

He smiles. It’s toothy. “I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you why I’m going out there – you know, top level security clearance.” 

“Right,” you nod, “Because you’re a pretty big deal.”

_ “Huge.” _

His smile is contained, threatening to peek through flushed cheeks.

You both slip into laughter, and finally a comfortable silence.

“Everything will be  _fine_ , I’m sure.”

* * *

He thought he was dead.

He had made peace with it – that he was gone in a burn of flames. It was a fitting end. 

Brock Rumlow was born out of anger, he lived with it, he grew within it. He was an explosive man. His mother had always said he like his father in that respect. It wasn’t a good thing. Memories rattle around so hard he winces.

_ … You piece of shit, you worthless little shit, you dumb sack of shit – you oughta be dead! _

But, here he is.

Dark eyes pull themselves open.

He knows he’s not dead.

Too much pain.

Far corner. A body. Three. Dress shoes. A glint of teeth. Get it out, Brock.

Explode.

_ “You turned me into a fuckin’ monster, you bastard!” _

Rumlow’s voice splinters into a hoarse bellow.

…  _Fuck him, huh, Brock? Forget that guy._ Hatred. Fire. Yelling. A hard blink. Need to move.

It’s sad, bubbling with anger and terror and an overwhelming searing kiss of pain. Rumlow squirms, metal fingers twitching against the cold lab table. The violent clang of vibranium on steel rings through the damp basement as he jarrs his wrists against the constraints.

… Dark. Where? Can’t remember. Burns. Hands are numb.  _Hands?_

Brock Rumlow isn’t the same man he once was.

He doesn’t need a mirror to know.

He’s more metal than flesh, more monster than man.

He used to be a looker – he knew it, too. He remembers prom. His mother cried. Two hands on the sides of his face, kisses of a Sicilian grandmother. Coos of pride. Brock was a flirt, once, romancing and dangerous.

…  _Keep chasing skirts you’ll get your heart hurt Brock_ , says mamu. Mamu.  _My handsome son!_  A starched Special Ops dress uniform. Kisses. Pride.

That pride is smothered by scar tissue.

He wishes he was dead.

Confusion dribbles with anger and fear and makes him deadly – like a caged animal fighting for survival.

A devilish grin is glued to red skin, and teeth look sharper in the low light of the basement. Beside the man stands a flurry of H.Y.D.R.A. scientists. Familiar faces. Brock remembers them. He remembers them running scared at the Winter Soldier.

The irony is almost  _poetic_.

…  _Your pal, your buddy, Bucky!_

Perhaps he should have helped Barnes when he had the chance. Maybe this is his punishment.

The crystalline taps of dress shoes against concrete ring Brock back in and he’s zeroed in on the figure approaching with a terrifying amount of intensity.

It makes the Red Skull laugh.

“Hello, Mister Rumlow.”

“Who th’  _fuck_  are you?”

“I’m the man giving you a chance at  _redemption_.”

* * *

Bucky thinks leaving the next morning might be the hardest thing he’s ever done.

You’d both come home late – greeted by Marissa at the door. Her foot was tapping, clothed in a rather embarrassing set of corgi pajamas. She’d gone flushed when Bucky complimented them.

“I thought you’d both died on the way home.”

“Sorry, Mar, we lost track of time.”

You had – after battling over a lemon meringue with your dessert forks – settled in with coffee and lazy conversation. Bucky listened with eager intent, trying to understand your thesis in its entirety. He was engaged, incredibly so, leaned forward with his palms between his knees. Blue eyes pinned you to the spot, warm and inviting, and you couldn’t help but feel a little special when he breathed out compliments and impressed exclamations.

“You’re  _smart_. Really smart.”

“And you’re  _wonderful_ , I think.”

You find yourself a bit too preoccupied with the dips of his throat, with the bulk of his shoulders.

His foot nudges yours.

He lets you wear his jacket on the walk home.

You hold his hand a little tighter than before.

You both fall through the door of the apartment and into the kitchen – Marissa bids you both goodnight, and you thank her for waiting up.

Her door clunks shut.

Your hands are on Bucky nearly immediately, hands meeting his waist in a gentle type of way.

The touch stirs his heart. You move, face pressing to the charcoal fabric of his dress shirt and his arms curl around you. He can’t help but laugh a little, admiring the way you curl against his in the dim light of the kitchen.

_ “Tired?” _

“Yeah,” you mumble, “But I don’t want to go to sleep.”

“Why?”

“Because when I wake up,” you mutter, “You’ll have to  _leave_.”

His brows quirk downwards, worry pulling his face into a frown. “Hey, it’s just a few days.”

“I know.”

Your tone betrays you. Bucky leans, cool fingertips grazing your chin.

“You know, I can’t stand it when my best girl is sad.”

“Whatcha gunna do about it?”

Your eyes sting a little with tears. You won’t let them fall.

The kiss is slow. Gentle and careful and every bit full of the affection he was drowning in earlier. It’s blossomed ten-fold, carving it’s way into his chest as he cradles you close. When he finally does pull away, lips red and lovebitten, you cry.

“I’m just  _worried_.”

He chases the tears, peppering kisses as you recoil under the sudden flux of attention. Bucky doesn’t let up, nor does he speak. He lets you hiccup, sniffle and pout. You bubble up with nervous laughter. Embarrassment paints your face. Bucky chases that away, too.

“Up.”

“No,” you swat his hands, “I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Bucky chirps, scruff tickling your cheek as he kisses you there, “Now come on and jump up.”

You laugh, muffling it into a kiss as you hop upwards. He catches you, one arm sweeping to grab your bottom and the other settle on the small of your back. Your ankles hook around his waist, smile bright as he adjusts his hold. Your chest presses to his own. A mingling of heartbeats. You bury your face into the crook of his neck. His hands tighten into your dress.

You both sleep restlessly.

He wakes up around 3am just to kiss you, just to tighten his hold on you.

You pry your eyes awake again and again, just to make sure he’s still there.

You press your self close, tangle your legs with his.

When 8am rolls around, when his alarm finally goes off – a little tinkering that terrifies you – you clutch at him and beg him to stay in bed a little longer.

“You know I can’t.”

You know.

He dresses quickly in last night’s clothes, tugging his slacks over his hips and buttoning his dress shirt. He rolls the sleeves and gathers his jacket. It feels different – like a one night stand without the sex. An emotional one night stand.

He kisses you long and slow before he leaves, fingers wound with yours. His knee is braced on the bed and you crane your neck to deepen the kiss.

“Be careful.”

“Everything will be fine.”

* * *

It’s the third day of stakeout when they get the call.

_ Helmut Zemo escaped his maximum security cell. _

It’s jumping like a flea from newsource to newsource

T’Challa hears it during dinner.

Okoye whispers it, full of a fiery anger, in his ear.

Shuri’s head snaps towards her brother, watching the exchange, watching how her brother stiffens with some mixture of anger and confusion. Like the true panther he is, he’s up and out of the room with a deadly silence. The only sound left in his wake is the resounding thud of the throne rooms door.

She finds him later that night readying a jet.

“And where do  _you_ think you’re going?”

Shuri recoils slightly. She sounds like mother.

T’Challa makes a face, too. So Shuri waves it off and watches him carefully. Okoye and other Dora Milaje are loading the plane. The princess peaks around her brother, narrowing her eyes.

“What’s going on?”

“The man who murdered father escaped his cell from the Avenger’s compound in upstate New York earlier today.”

_“How?”_ it’s incredulous. Her eyes are wide as she blinks quickly, “He was under maximum security watch, twenty-four-seven. The man couldn’t even  _shit_ –”

_ “Language.” _

Okoye darts a finger towards her as she passes and Shuri straightens, intimidated by the general. She’s quick to correct herself.

“The man couldn’t even  _defecate_ without letting eight security personnel know.”

“I am well aware, Shuri,” T’Challa chirps, gathering a crate of equipment, “And that’s why we are going to figure out what has happened.”

“Well, you better bring me.”

A pause.

T’Challa blinks back at his sister.

“I’m smarter than that entire compound combined,” Shuri snipes, “So hurry up and move. I need to pack.”

He doesn’t argue.

* * *

It’s late.

You miss Bucky.

It shows. You’re swaddled in a shirt of his, curled into the sheets with your thesis outline scattered around you. Everyone had always told you not to work in bed, but the bad habit was only spurred on by a bit of sulking on your part. You hadn’t realized how much the distance between you and Bucky would bum you out.

You rub your eyes.

It’s late. Really late. Too late.

You raise your phone. It lights awake. No notifications.

You sigh.

Marissa is home, but her silence indicates she’s probably doing the same thing you are. She was biomedical turned pre-med, and with that came clinical and long hours of prep. The apartment is quiet. Eerily so.

You’re about to call it a night when you notice movement outside your window.

Bucky had insisted you kept it locked.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

There’s a man on the fire escape.

You freeze, eyes glued to the shadow of a form. In the moonlight, gunmetal glints and hope leaps into your throat so violently it slams a smile onto your face.

“Bucky?” it’s a whisper.

Then you see the gun. And the other metal arm.

And then mask.

A skull.

_ Everything is not fine. _


	22. Past Haunts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You lose your housing deposit. Brock Rumlow secures the target.

**ONE MINUTE AGO:**

You raise your phone. It blinks awake. No notifications.

You sigh.

Marissa is home, but her silence indicates she’s probably doing the same thing you are. She was biomedical turned pre-med, and with that came clinical and long hours of prep. The apartment is quiet. Eerily so.

You’re about to call it a night when you notice movement outside your window.

Bucky had insisted you kept it locked.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

There’s a man on the fire escape.

You freeze, eyes glued to the shadow of a form. In the moonlight, gunmetal glints and hope leaps into your throat so violently it slams a smile onto your face.

_“Bucky?”_  it’s a whisper.

Then you see the gun. And the other metal arm.

And then mask.

A skull.

Everything is  _not_ fine.

* * *

**CURRENTLY:**

Marissa hears your screams from down the hall.

The figure is fast – heavy footfalls rattle the fire escape outside your window as you throw yourself backwards off the bed, quick to duck as a blip of a round fires through the glass pane and sprays into the wall above your head. Your lamp bursts apart and you shriek as boots crunch against glass littering the hardwood.

And you’re  _pissed_. You loved that lamp.

_“What the fuck?!”_

“Honey, I’m  _home_.”

He’s in the room. He’s inside.

Brock Rumlow (a.ka. Crossbones, a.k.a. newly crowned super-soldier, a.k.a. the intruder ruining your night in) leans through the window, eyes scanning the room. It’s small. An old apartment. His grandmother lived in one like this. Some second world war low-income housing. The wallpaper screams idyllic family life.

_Cute._

“Come out,  _come out,_ ” the figures voice is a gruff chirp, full of amusement and it riles up the dread settling into the pit of your stomach. He holsters his gun, toeing the glass, “I ain’t gonna  _kill_ ya, sweetheart…”

You hold your breath, eyes darting around the room for anything –

“Just  _maim_.”

Brock makes eye contact with you from across the room and his world stops.

It doesn’t feel real – it feels artificial and impossible, and time seems slower than normal. But the adrenaline in your veins has you deciding between fighting or flight-ing and before you realize it, that Louisville slugger is in your hands and you’ve launched yourself into a swing with a primal scream as the intruder rounds the queen-sized bed.

Brock is staggered by it – and  _surprised_. He was kind of preoccupied with the sudden feeling you’d churned in his gut upon impact. You have the same nose as his senior prom date. Your hair moves and Brock remembers someone he loved a long time ago. Little memories burnt from his brain flashback before his eyes with a sting that has him reeling.

You got a good swing.

“Nice try.”

The hit isn’t enough – the bat splinters into a thousand pieces across the vibranium mask and before you realize it, the hulking assailant is swinging back. Despite the feeling in Brock’s chest, he hammers home, hellbent on finishing his mission.

The bat clatters to the ground as you duck just as Marissa yanks open the door, eyes widening as vibranium fist connects with the wall beside her head. She hears the mechanisms inside whir.

_“Holy fuck!”_

Marissa screams, and you take it as ample opportunity to go for the masked man’s knees. Brock hits the floor like a stack of bricks and you scramble up, hands grappling with the floor as you move to bolt and grab Marissa on the way out.

Brock’s irritated – he’s  _pissed_ , really, because that whole baseball-bat-to-the-head thing hurt.

He lunges, catching your ankle as you dive through your bedroom door frame, rocketing you towards the floorboards as your damn room mate continues to scream. It knocks the wind straight from your lungs and you yelp in pain –

Giving Peter Parker just enough time to swing himself through your bedroom window and make his debut in the ring.

A web catches Brock’s wrist, then the back of his head, and then, like a loaded spring, his forehead is sent flying into the floor. The vibranium mask takes a brunt of this hit, and his ears ring from the impact. This isn’t going according to plan.

“Surprise,  _bonehead!”_

You’re locked in place on the floor, eyes wide in awe as the red and blue clad Spider-man carries out his defensive assault – until he barks a quick:

“Get  _out_ of here!”

You recognize the voice.

Before you can say anything, warn Peter to be careful — Marissa drags you across the floor by your collar and hauls you upwards, swearing from hell and back. Quickly, you both scramble to shove the kitchen table up against your bedroom door as panicked looks are exchanged.

“What  _the fuck?!”_

“I don’t know!” you screech, hands waving, “ _You_ tell me!”

“I knew this would happen – I  _knew it!_ Should have never signed on with that can-opener boyfriend of yours –”

“Oh, yeah, because  _Bucky_ sicked the masked psycho on us!”

The clash in the other room escalates.

“I can’t believe you’re blaming  _Bucky!”_  you say, exasperated and offended.

Behind the wall, Brock wonders if bad luck is, like, his new thing. He makes a mental note to buy a rabbit foot or something next time he goes out without a handler. Currently, though, he’s tripping over his own feet, landing face first back into the floorboards thanks to the webbing around his shins.

He groans, anger flaring as Spider-man swings – the pounce is ruined by two boots to the chest, sending the webhead into the wall.

There’s a heavy thwunk against the wall behind you and Peter drops the F bomb.

The argument dies. Marissa speaks slowly.

“You need to call Bucky.”

“I don’t have my phone –”

“Where is it?!”

“Oh, lemme go  _look_ , Marissa!” your hands gesture wildly to the bedroom door to your left.

“Okay.  _Okay!_ What’s the number?!”

You blink. “… Oh god, I can’t remember.”

Marissa is about to battle back, about to serve you something witty and smart. And then a spray of bullets careens through the door and kitchen table, leaving holes in the plywood and out the other end of the kitchen wall.

You both descend into panicked screams, shoving each away from the bullet-ridden bedroom door as Crossbones crashes through it.

So much for your security deposit.

* * *

They were called back to the upstate compound on the third day of the stakeout; Bucky wasn’t about to complain until he learned why they were being dragged all the way back from the middle of Nevada – _Helmut Zemo escaped his maximum security cell from the Federal Penitentiary in upstate New York._

He’s been on edge since.

Bucky is in the midst of chowing down on a microwave dinner when his phone goes off. He’d been put in a metaphorical time-out corner by Stark after running his mouth a bit too much – Steve was shocked at the sudden burn of confidence lighting up his usually quiet counterpart. Quickly, though, Steve recognized that confidence as worry. Bucky wanted to be back in the city, back with you.

“The kid is with your girl, _he’s got it,_ ” Stark says, “Now, go eat some dinner and get rid of the attitude,  _please_?”

Stark and Banner and T’Challa are a few feet away, pouring over all known security footage of the escape in the dining room. The visual evidence is slim.

The kitchen is bustling now – Shuri and T’Challa had arrived two hours ago at the upstate Avenger’s compound. The whole team is here now, save for Peter who’s busy working security. Bucky had last heard from you about an hour ago when you’d said you’d planned on getting some studying done.

He knows that worrying is irrational. But, since when has anything in his life been rational?

He’s mid-chew when his phone thrums alive in his back pocket.

Bucky digs it out, sighing softly – probably more of those weird home security system calls he keeps getting _… oh._ Dark brows knot in confusion over the name that fleets across the screen.

“Who’s that?” Steve asks, shoving a forkful of lasagna into his mouth, “A friend?”

“The roommate.”

Steve’s eyes squint, brows knotting.

And Bucky picks it up.

* * *

You’re both screaming, panicking now that the door has been unceremoniously busted open and you’re left scrambling across the kitchen trying to dodge the kevlar gloved hands of the intruder in the skull mask.

Brock gives a frustrated scream – the order was to retrieve you alive, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult – the hulking soldier rolls his shoulders as he pulls his glock from his thigh-holster and fires quick and fast at you and Marissa making a run down the hall.

A neat GSW would do the trick. Make this a lot easier too.

_“Target is on the move.”_   


Peter’s trying to patch in Tony – but Karen is on the fritz. Maybe it was the hit he took before Brock had muscled the door open. His brain feels kinda fuzzy. Not good. But, he’s got a job to do.  

“Haven’t you ever heard of proper firearm safety, dude?”

Brock can feel the impact of webbing glue to his shoulders, and next thing he knows he’s on the receiving end of a kick to the jaw. It knocks him back, and Brock hits the ground hard. The fridge is on it’s way down, and Brock rolls fast to try and dodge the kitchen appliance.

He groans from his place on the floor.

_Fuckin’ ridiculous. Said it was gonna be a quick job. Didn’t say anything about underoos. Fuckin’ stupid._

A well aimed shot from the glock kicks Spider-man backwards, leaving his systems flickering as Karen desperately tries to reboot. Peter screeches, hitting the drywall hard enough to lose his breath. Peter thanks the upgrade Mr. Stark had installed again, and wonders if this is the eighth time tonight or the ninth?

“Bucky! Oh thank god,  _Bucky!”_

You and Marissa are already out the door, footfalls pounding the stairwell when the spray from an automatic cuts your path out the door. On the stairwell above you, you see the hulking form the of the man on your tail. You scream, shoving Marissa backwards as the phone slips from her grasp. Marissa crawls, snagging the shattered iPhone and dodges out the emergency exit. She presses the phone to her ear before shrieking.

“Where  _the fuck_  are the rest of the Avengers, asshole?!”

Bucky has gone white in the kitchen.

And Tony notices the sudden reaction of Wanda and Vision and Sam who are all staring at the phone in Bucky’s hands. From across the kitchen, the billionaire squints. “Who is that?”

Bucky swallows. He shoves the phone across the counter; his face is twisted into confusion and fear and dread. Tony picks it up, listening in.

Gunshots.

“…Hello?”

“Hello, yeah! 911, _I’m looking for the Avengers?!”_

“Who is this?”

Another gunshot.

“Marissa – fuck – _I’m the roommate!”_

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., get me eyes on Peter.”

The phone is abandoned on the marble counter top. The den is suddenly swept into a mobile command – F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s hub is comprehensive and mobile, following Tony as he begins to pace. The worried eyes of the room turn to the center as Bucky fights the sudden urge to vomit.

_This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening._

Steve squeezes his shoulder.

“Sorry, boss,” says the A.I., “It seems Karen is on the fitz.”

“What?”

“It seems Peter’s suit has taken a heavy amount of damage. The internal systems are broadcasting a reboot signal.”

_“Fix it.”_

“Will do, boss.”

Shuri snags the phone off the counter, her own fingers working quick to track the number – and within seconds she’s got security footage of the apartment pulled up on F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s hub in the center of the room. She nudges Tony and the billionaire gives her a look of confusion, only to remember who he’s looking at.

Pint-sized genius. Her and Peter will get along.

He turns his eyes back to the CCTV footage from the deli shop across the street.

No one in the room likes what they see.

You’re pinned – you’ve got Marissa pressed against a car across the street; she’s yelling at you, eyes wild, but you’ve tuned her out. You’re just trying to get out of this alive.

And that’s when Happy Hogan pulls up in a slick, all black Benz, steps out and proceeds to unload a clip into the direction of the masked man.

The license plate says STARK1 and you’ve never been happier to see the one man who’d been invading your privacy those handful of weeks ago.

“Who the fuck?!”

“Don’t ask –  _go!”_

You shove her, head low as you scramble across the street – Happy unload his round and pins Crossbones to the stairwell, ducking behind the Mercedes as he looks you both over quickly. For the first time, the look is full of concern; and Happy peers over the back end of the Benz as you both try and catch your breath.

“You good?”

“Peter’s still inside,” you blurt out, chest heaving, “We have Bucky on the phone.”

_“Son of a bitch.”_

“Hi,  _yeah_ ,” it’s Tony’s voice, yelling from the receiver in Marissa’s hands, “Happy? Get the kid out of there.”

“Trying, boss.”

The three of your scream as another spray lights up along the car, sparking it bright as the bullets deflect. Happy grits out a curse, tugging at his tie and locking in a fresh clip as he points at you and Marissa.

“You two stay here.”

“What?” you screech, “You can’t go in there –”

“Watch me.”

And that’s how Happy Hogan took a bullet to the knee in the middle street.

_“FUCKING SHIT!”_

_“WHAT DID I TELL YOU?!”_

You can hear the heavy footfalls of Crossbones coming down the stairwell.

You’re screaming, dragging Happy back behind the Benz by his shoulders when that black van tears around the corner. You’re lit up in the high beams, fear igniting in your chest as the van swerves, door hauling open with a death rattle as arms grab you – you’re clawing, trying to break free of the grip, but the bag being put over your head blocks out the streetlights and your hands are being taped behind your back and when the door closes, you know it’s bad.

Everyone does.

The CCTV’s frames are slow. In three seconds and one black blur, you’re gone. Crossbones hangs from the back end of the van. He salutes the CCTV camera across the street.

Steve snaps his dinner plate.

Bucky’s fist goes through the marble counter top.

It’s really bad.

_“Target secured, boss.”_


End file.
